The Fallen
by sidewinder
Summary: Ezekiel Stone is back in New York City, having fled Los Angeles to keep Rosalyn safe. Detective John Munch is still finding his way in Manhattan SVU after leaving Baltimore the year before. The two cross paths on the hunt for a serial killer and neither may be prepared for what they discover while working together. (John Munch/Ezekiel Stone)


_Author's Notes: This story was written for the 2016 M/M Rares Fiction Exchange on AO3, as a gift for Highlander_II. It does feature a crossover pairing of John Munch/Ezekiel Stone (eventually!) So if you do not care for even a hint of slash in your fic, do not read. This story does contain mentions of violence, rape, and sexual situations typical to what can be found in both canons but (in my opinion) no more graphic than that. Proceed forward with those cautions in mind._

* * *

 ** _Tuesday, April 11, 2000._**

Ezekiel Stone had been born in New York City. He had also died here, seventeen years ago.

He never thought he'd see the bright lights of Times Square ever again. Never thought it would be something he'd actually come to miss, either. On this particular evening, nearly but not yet two decades since his demise, he left the Port Authority Bus Terminal and welcomed the glorious chaos outside. He found the place both eerily familiar and oddly different from the New York City he had known and lived in all those years ago.

Death certainly gave him a different perspective on a lot of things.

Hands in the pockets of his favorite old coat, he stepped out into the crowd, let himself get carried away into it. Not quite two years ago, he had first returned to this city on an express train straight from Hell. Lucifer had made him an offer which he'd agreed to before understanding the full consequences of what he'd signed up for...but wasn't that always how the devil played his games?

 _"About that second chance,"_ Zeke had asked. _"How does that work, exactly?"_

 _"That's for me to know and you to find out...in the event you actually succeed in rounding up all one hundred and thirteen of your wayward brothers and sisters."_

One hundred and thirteen escaped damned souls...and just one Ezekiel Stone, late of the New York Police Department, tasked with sending them all home.

A taxi horn blared loudly and stopped him in his tracks. He'd been following the throng and stepped off the curb when the light changed.

"Watch where you're going, idiot! Gonna get yourself killed!" the driver shouted out the window at him.

"Not likely," Zeke muttered under his breath.

New York drivers were the least of his concerns at the moment. Zeke had traveled the length of this country once already since returning to Earth, on his own personal mission to find his wife ( _widow, be honest with yourself)_ , Rosalyn. And now, after a circuitous journey across America, he had returned to New York to continue doing the devil's bidding—and to hopefully keep some of the more dangerous quarry who were now hunting _him_ down as far away from Rosalyn as possible.

The traffic signal changed again and Zeke picked up with the fast-paced crowd the best he could. Tourists and businessmen, hucksters and the homeless, the sidewalks along 8th Avenue and then Broadway could barely contain them all. Zeke wanted to get away from the press of people so he could walk off his stiffness without nearly getting run over, stretch his legs after too many hours confined to a Greyhound bus that had made some of the torture cells of Hell seem spacious.

He passed a souvenir shop filled with NYC t-shirts, magnets, and all sorts of regrettable tacky items where a group of foreign tourists were trying to barter down the price of a handful of postcards. All the places he'd been these last months, he'd never thought to collect anything like that. He preferred to travel light, and didn't necessarily want to hold on to these memories.

San Francisco, Seattle, Denver, the Grand Canyon...he'd seen them all for the first time while hunting for murderers, rapists, even a few historic warlords. The Great Lakes and then Chicago—that had been a particularly "fun" destination, going after a former mob boss still carrying a grudge against the crime family that had ordered his death seventy-five years ago. He'd traveled south to Texas, Mississippi and Louisiana, dispatched a racist klansman who'd led lynch mobs and an ancient priestess trying to start a new cult in her name in New Orleans.

He'd seen more of America while dead than he'd ever seen during his lifetime. But he regretted not being able to see these places with Rosalyn at his side, the way he'd dreamed they might.

Maybe he still might get that chance, someday. If he managed to complete this mission, and the devil actually held up his end of the bargain. And then, Zeke thought with a small smile, he'd buy every single tacky souvenir he could to remember their travels.

Sixty-eight of the one hundred and thirteen fugitives remained uncaptured, their names etched on his skin. He knew some had to be hiding out here in New York and then further north, which was how he'd ended up here once again. This city appeared to have been the portal from which they'd originally all escaped to Earth, just like himself. If Los Angeles were the City of Angels, then it seemed only appropriate that New York was the City of the Damned.

Zeke turned off on 46th Street, hoping to escape some of the madness—and to get his first taste of the city now that he was back once more. This new, modern, sanitized Times Square didn't quite sit right with Zeke, but there remained a few pleasures to be found. Dollar-a-slice, New York-style pizza certainly reigned near the top of his list. Nothing like it existed anywhere else in the country and he'd been dreaming about it the entire bus ride from Baltimore. At the corner of the next block he found a pizza joint that looked suitably greasy and gave off the perfect aroma of sweet tomato, spices and yeasty dough. He ordered a basic cheese slice and a fountain Coke to go, both well worth the last bit of change he had in his coat pocket until the next morning.

Simple pleasures like street food and fizzy drinks took on a whole other dimension when you'd tasted nothing but sulfur, ash, blood and your own tears for fifteen years.

"New York, New York—it's a _Hell_ of a town. Don't you agree, Mister Stone?"

Ezekiel stopped dead in his tracks, his stomach instantly turning to lead. He'd barely gotten one good bite of his pizza slice before a certain someone had to—of course—come and ruin everything.

"Couldn't leave me in peace for even one day, could you?"

The devil stood beside him wearing an "I ❤︎ NY" t-shirt beneath his satiny silver blazer, a Statue of Liberty green foam tiara on his head.

"Never. Not when you've got work to do and you're whiling away the hours on unnecessary Earthly indulgences."

"Come on, cut me some slack. I sent home two of your wayward souls on the trip up here through D.C."

"And you should have cleaned up the rest of those hiding out in the Big Apple before traipsing off to the Left Coast in search of your wife. That certainly didn't go too well for you, did it, Detective?"

"Well enough." Zeke took a sip of his soda and waited at the intersection for the light to change so he could get walking again. Maybe he could lose the devil in these maddening crowds. "What happened to this place, anyway?" he asked about the newly glitzy neighborhood. "Feels more like a theme park than the Times Square I remember."

"Ah, you mean, where are all the hookers? The peep show palaces? Adult toy stores and shady electronics vendors? Long since cleaned out and tossed aside to make way for more 'family friendly' tourist destinations. After all, who needs porn when you've got Planet Hollywood?"

Zeke glanced sideways at the devil's enthusiastic response. "I'm surprised you approve."

"Ah, it's merely an exchange, one vice for another. Corporate greed and commercialism over prurient pleasures of the flesh." They started across the street as the light changed and the mass of humanity around them surged forward. "Although speaking of which, you'll still find plenty of _that_ in this glorious city. You simply have to look elsewhere these days. Along the waterfront and in alleyways. Or even in some of the city's finest hotels...like, say, The Plaza on Central Park South."

"The Plaza, huh?"

"Oh yes. Not everyone who books a room at that fine establishment has been getting the exact 'happy ending' they were bargaining—or paying—for. You might want to see for yourself."

"Might I."

"Mm hmm. And don't dilly-dally, Mr. Stone. I'm not keeping you up here to oggle the scenery or spend your daily allowance on junk food your dead body doesn't require."

"Hey! Watch it!" Zeke shouted as someone jammed him in the shoulder with an elbow. Turned out to be a tourist trying to take a group photo of his family. Zeke sighed and then looked down in dismay. The devil was gone, but so was his slice of pizza.

"That son of a bitch," Zeke cursed, then glanced upwards and quickly said, "Sorry." He was pissed, but at least he had his soda. He kept walking and tried to enjoy it the best he could as he headed toward Central Park, not all that eager to see what joys the damned had in store for him this spin around the city.

* * *

Detective John Munch winced as he lifted the plastic sheet covering the dead man's body.

"Is it...?" his partner, Monique Jeffries, began to ask.

"Yep," John sighed, dropping the plastic and rising to his feet. "Damn, a sight like that is enough to make even a man like me swear off sex for the next decade."

Monique snorted. "As if you've had any in years to begin with. You'd think men in this city would be more careful, given how many vics we've had in the past few months. But no, guys always have to be sticking their dicks where they don't belong."

"And then losing them—and their lives simultaneously. Unfortunately that's the history of humanity for you, Jeffries. Men are ruled by their penises first, brains second."

Monique made a disgusted face at her partner, then glanced over at the M.E. who was coming over to join them after talking to the CSU investigators. "Estimated time of death?" she asked.

"Less than two hours ago," the young man said. "Front desk got the call at 11:42pm, neighboring room complaining about loud noises and a strong burning smell. Security came up and found our victim like this, called 9-1-1 immediately. Murder isn't exactly conducive for business."

"This is some bad business all around," John agreed. "Looks like the same pattern as the other victims: strangled, penis not just cut off but the wound somehow cauterized, burned clean."

The M.E. nodded. "Ring finger missing as well. I'll get on this one first thing in the morning but I doubt we'll find anything different—or more useful—here compared to the previous victims."

"Just more inexplicable weirdness," John said. "Prints that don't match anyone in the system, no viable DNA, any skin or hair we find strangely showing as dead or inert material. Our perp? It's like she's a zombie with a grudge against cheating husbands."

"And how are you so certain it's a woman?" Jeffries asked. "We still haven't been able to talk anyone who's seen a thing."

"Only a woman would do that to a man. Trust me." John shuddered, thinking about the body beneath that sheet. He'd seen a hell of a lot over sixteen years in Homicide and now coming up on one year at SVU. But there was something about guys losing their privates that was particularly unsettling—at least to any other member of the male sex. "And given this was the first attack in a place like a reputable hotel instead of a hooker flop house or park, hopefully we'll get something useful on surveillance cameras, someone who remembers or saw the perp with our victim."

"Well to start with, we've got this." Another CSU officer came over with an evidence bag in hand. "This necklace was found on the ground near the body. The chain is broken as if it had been grabbed during a struggle."

John took a quick look. The necklace featured a large, elaborate pendant covered in jewels and pearls, hanging from a gold chain of unusual and intricate weave. "Nice looking piece."

"Unusual, too," Jeffries added, peering over his shoulder. "Maybe custom made?"

"Something we can look into later." John wanted to get downstairs and talk to the front desk staff and security, see about getting access to any and all surveillance camera footage. This perp had been frustrating him for most of the past year, since the first victim had shown up in Riverside Park. The whole thing stunk of the kind of case destined to bring down a dedicated detective's closure rate. He really hoped they'd finally get some kind of lead this time around, before yet another man ended up dead thanks to this murderous psychopath.

Glancing over toward the hotel room door, John spotted a man hanging around in the hallway who didn't seem to belong there. He wore no uniform, no CSU jacket, but simply lurked in the background as if he was trying to stay out of sight while taking in everything he could. "Just what we need," John said, catching Monique's attention as he strode toward the intruder. Reporter or nosy looky-loo, neither one was welcome as far as he was concerned.

"Hey, you," John called to get the man's attention. The guy didn't budge or even seem to react as he stood there in his overcoat and sweater. "Hey Columbo, this is police business so unless you witnessed something we should know about, how about you move along."

"I am police," he answered as John and Monique walked over to him. He pulled out his badge and continued, "Ezekiel Stone, Homicide."

John's eyes flickered over the gold shield but not fast enough to get a number before the man shoved it in his pocket. "Bully for you, but this is a Special Victims case. So you can go find some other dead body to sniff."

"Who's the victim?" Stone asked, as if ignoring everything John had said to him.

And that was really starting to piss John off. "Hello, did you not hear what I said? This is our case, not Homicide's, so shove off."

"Munch, maybe the guy has something to add to this," Jeffries said, stepping in between the two men. "Who called you in?"

"My superior," Stone answered vaguely. "Said you could use some outside help on this one."

"Yeah, well, then your supervisor needs to set it up with _our_ supervisor at the 16th. Until then, we've got nothing for you and I suggest you get out of our crime scene."

"Detectives, found something else here for you," one of the CSU techs called. Jeffries headed over, while Munch glowered at Mr. "Ezekiel Stone, Homicide" until he shrugged and shuffled off down the corridor.

"Goddamned murder police. Think they own every case in this city and the rest of us are lowly scum," John muttered to himself. He ought to know, since he'd been one himself.

* * *

Zeke left the building and simply observed the police activity at the hotel for a while, taking it in from across the street. He had to come up with some kind of plan of action, and this wasn't exactly how he'd expected to spend his first night back in New York City. He figured he wouldn't be able to get too close to the crime scene, not until CSU was done picking it over and that could take most of the night. Meanwhile the detectives in charge of the investigation would be interviewing everyone they could, getting statements, taking down names and numbers. Zeke knew the routine; not much about it had changed in seventeen years except for the technology at the police's disposal.

Tomorrow he'd find his own way into that room, talk to whomever at the hotel might be able to give him some information that the _living_ cops wouldn't know to ask about. Look for things that even modern technology might miss or have no ready answers to explain as he did.

In the meantime there wasn't much more he could do for the night; obviously one of the escaped damned souls he was hunting had killed the unfortunate fellow in that hotel room tonight; the devil wouldn't have sent him here otherwise. From what he'd gathered talking to the unis on scene, this same individual was a suspect in a number recent killings.

At least Zeke knew who was leading up the current police investigation. Whether that man would turn out to be someone who could be useful to Zeke in the future or someone he'd need to tread lightly around remained to be seen. Munch, Special Victims Unit, 16th Precinct...Zeke filed these facts away in his mental notes for tomorrow. The guy had that cynical, smart ass, too-good-for-you attitude that a lot of the older cops he'd known at Manhattan South all seemed to develop if they stuck around the job too long. He gave off the air of a veteran Homicide cop, not the touchy-feely vibe Zeke had always associated with the "Sex Police"...the ones that had pissed him off so much with how they'd botched his own wife's rape investigation.

But maybe that had changed, too, all those years Zeke had been out of commission. He might try to test the waters there with Munch or his partner, that woman Jeffries, more deeply if he couldn't get far on his own.

Also on Zeke's priority list for the next day was finding somewhere to stay in town. His budget didn't leave him many options and thirty-six dollars a day didn't go far in the big city. Tonight, though, the weather was clear and the cool air actually quite pleasant to someone who had endured quite enough heat to last several lifetimes. He turned away from the hotel to disappear into Central Park, where he could ostensibly hunt for his quarry for a while—in case he or she hadn't strayed far from the scene of the crime. Then he would look for a quiet spot to lay down and rest for a few hours, find out if one could ever see the stars in Manhattan, from the Great Lawn or perhaps Sheep Meadow.

It did feel strangely comforting to be home.

* * *

A woman walked north up Columbus Avenue, humming to herself as if without a care in the world. Some might say it was dangerous for a lady to be walking the streets of New York alone at this hour. But she was not at all concerned for her safety. She knew how to handle herself, how to fight off those who might mean her harm.

That was perhaps the first crucial lesson she'd learned from her mother, so very many years before. Survival. Self-defense. _"Never trust anyone else to take care of you, my darling child. You must always be able to take care of yourself."_

The music of the opera she'd heard earlier that evening played on in her head, so lovely and often, so sad. She had never heard this music until tonight—it came from after her era, but the story of Violetta Valéry had spoken to her soul, her own broken heart.

 _"Le gioie, i dolori tra poco avran fine,_  
 _La tomba ai mortali di tutto è confine!_  
 _Non lagrima o fiore avrà la mia fossa,_  
 _Non croce col nome che copra quest'ossa!"_

No, no one had cried or placed flowers at her grave. No one had etched her name to a stone cross above her bones. And for that she was thankful, even after all of her decades of torment and misery. She would never bow before a God so cruel and heartless, a God who had given her so few choices in life and then punished her for the choice she'd been forced to make.

She would never sing the praises of a God who had turned the only man she'd ever truly loved against her, dooming her to fire on Earth and then for eternity in Hell.

But now, she had broken free from that endless misery. She had emerged from centuries of torture to find a world both new and so very familiar to a woman such as herself.

Her mother had taught her many things as soon as she'd been old enough, particularly how to please a man. Since her return to Earth she'd survived on those well-practiced skills, all while expanding her knowledge, her understanding of this new era. She had plied her trade along this city's riverbanks like a lowly _cortigiana di lume,_ pleasing many—and dispatching a few who tried to do her harm or treat her with no respect. She had slowly saved her earnings, learned the language, picked up on the tools of the modern trade until she could rise from the murky landscape into the brilliance of the city life once again.

She found it a pity that so much had changed in this world, and yet men were so much the same. A pure and honest man seemed nowhere to be found, and while that made her life easy in ways, it did nothing to soothe a heart that continued to yearn for love.

She spun the gold band on her thumb around with the fingertips of her other hand, sadness filling her once more. She regretted losing her favorite necklace during the earlier struggle, but this wedding band would be easier to sell for the money she needed to survive.

 _Ah, Thomas, I thought perhaps you were different. I thought you might truly know how to love me._ And he had so reminded her, in pleasing ways, of her Giorgio, the man who had once promised her a life with him, an honest one. But in the end he had betrayed her heart just the same, choosing a loveless marriage of convenience and safety over the passion she could give him.

So she'd done the only thing she could do, really. It was tragic, but that was life.

And life was hers for the taking, the pleasure and the pain of it, once again.

Still humming to herself, she climbed the stairs and unlocked the door to the apartment which had become her new home. She wasn't sure how long she could stay here... hopefully a few more weeks before its former occupant was noticeably missed. The young girl hadn't known what had hit her, the poor dear.

They simply didn't train courtesans these days like they used to.

* * *

 ** _Wednesday, April 12, 2000._**

Ezekiel got moving early, having only slept for a fitful hour or two in the park. As the devil frequently reminded him, he didn't exactly _need_ to sleep, but there was something about simply lying down in the dark for a while—even and sometimes especially in the great outdoors—that renewed his inner strength, made him feel at least a bit less like a dead man who had no business being in this world.

At least no patrolmen had come around to roust the homeless out of the dark corner of Central Park where he'd hunkered down for the night. Dawn was barely starting to rise and he guessed it could barely be past six in the morning as he started walking toward the nearest park exit. But checking his coat pocket, he could feel the familiar weight of small change and a few bills there: thirty-six dollars and twenty-seven cents to be precise. And so the day had reset itself for him already, and that meant he had to get to work.

He made his way to The Plaza to find the police, as expected, now gone. However several local news vans were parked nearby, clearly getting ready for the early morning report on this latest scandalous crime. Zeke wanted to get in there before any day shift police came around to continue working the scene. He skirted past the news crew to get inside, and recognized at least one of the employees at the registration desk from having been there overnight. He walked over purposefully and introduced himself, then showed his badge. "You were on duty overnight when the incident in room 1458 was reported, is that correct?"

"Yes, but I told the cops everything I could hours ago. Don't you guys talk to each other? I'm about to go off-shift in a few minutes." The guy appeared understandably weary after the evening he'd been through.

Zeke put on his best, understanding-police-officer smile. He was getting used to this routine after over a year of shadowing behind local law enforcement and dealing with confused witnesses and victims...not to mention his own past on the job. "I understand. But we often find it helpful to re-interview witnesses, see if you remember anything more after the initial shock and surprise has worn off. I'd like to go over your recollections of events directly—and then have a chance to view the crime scene myself now that I've been assigned to assist in the investigation."

"I'll have to get my general manager's approval to allow you in the room, but...can you wait for five minutes until I clock out? I can talk to you for a few minutes then. I'll speak with my manager in the meantime."

"Absolutely. I'll get myself a coffee, wait at the...lobby bar over there, if that's all right?" Zeke asked, pointing toward the bar where he saw a small to-go breakfast service set up and getting started for the day.

"Okay, fine. I'll meet you over there."

"Thank you for your cooperation." That would give Zeke a minute to check out the early edition newspaper anyway, which he spied copies of out in the lobby for guests. He needed a few minutes to catch up on the details of what this particular fugitive from Hell had been up to since returning to Earth not long before he did, and the _New York Post_ was certain to have all the gruesome details for him...at least those released to the press.

* * *

"So what's the latest on your pecker thief?" Elliot asked in a far too chipper voice for this early in the morning. John and Monique had entered the bullpen after an exceptionally long night to find everyone else at the 16th only beginning their day. "I hear there was another unfortunate victim."

"You heard correctly, oh most observant one." John tacked the newest victim's photograph to the bulletin board. "Thomas Idler, 53-year old tax attorney for GlobalX Technologies in Midtown. Married, though perhaps not that happily. He told his wife he was working late to prepare for an IRS audit so he'd be staying overnight in Manhattan instead of driving home to Long Island. In fact he was, according to credit card receipts found on his personage, out at the Metropolitan Opera entertaining our deadly damsel. From there, they went to The Plaza for the after-show. I'm thinking the remainder of the evening didn't go exactly as Mr. Idler had planned."

"From Riverside Park to The Plaza? Our lady of the evening is moving up in the world," Olivia said, joining them with her morning cup of coffee in hand. "Are you convinced it's the same perp?"

"Can't mistake the M.O.," John continued. "The dead man was missing his genitalia, but blood loss was minimal due to cauterization of the wound. She also took his ring finger; wife confirmed he was wearing a wedding band, and a pretty pricey one at that. Waiting on the official cause of death from the M.E. but we're assuming it will be exactly like the others: strangulation. Ligature marks on the neck were indicative of a manual choke hold, some minor burn marks there as well."

"Victim type fits the same profile as the others so far: middle-aged, tall, slender build, dark hair...hey, maybe you'd better watch out yourself, Munch," Monique quipped at her partner.

"The only time I've ever paid for sex is in the form of alimony to my ex-wives," John replied. "But we've definitely got a pattern here. The one thing that's changed is our homicidal hooker has gone from doing johns in the parks or Bowery flophouses to high-class hotels. The upside of _that_ is we finally have surveillance footage of our suspect, and physical evidence linking her to the scene of at least this crime."

John tacked up another photo, this one a slightly grainy black-and-white image of Idler and a woman at the hotel reception desk. She appeared to have long, light-colored hair and was wearing a classic black cocktail dress, although it was hard to get too clear of a look at her face thanks to the camera angle. "He checked in to the hotel with our lady of the evening and also shared a drink with her at the bar before going up to their room. Front desk clerk couldn't tell us much, but the bartender said she and our vic were all over each other before heading upstairs—and that she spoke with a heavy accent, he thought maybe Italian or Spanish, definitely European."

"Well that's finally something to work from," Captain Cragen said. "Now let's see if we can bring this woman in before she gets to another victim."

"We're on it," Jeffries said. "Waiting on a court order for Idler's LUDs, but in the meantime we've got his recent credit card statements from his wife. If our perp has somehow moved up from street walking to a high class escort service? Hopefully we can find some path to identifying her that way."

"And you see that necklace she's wearing in the surveillance footage? It was left behind at the crime scene," John added, pointing at the image. "Appears unique enough to potentially be a custom piece, or something we can try to track down to a specific designer. We're also going to get the word out to pawn shops around town to keep an eye out for Idler's wedding ring; there's an inscription inside the band that should make it easy to identify."

"Any reason to suspect the wife was involved?" Elliot asked. "Copycat crime, contract killing, try to blame it on a hooker?"

"Highly doubtful," Monique replied. "Mrs. Idler appeared genuinely shocked when we talked to her, if not necessarily overly upset. Seems she was well aware of her husband's not-so-secret affairs and didn't care at this point, as long as he kept paying the household bills."

"...Including those she racked up on his credit cards for designer clothes up and down Fifth Avenue," John said. "Which could make sorting out his records more complicated. We'll check her alibi but it seems solid for now, she was out at dinner with some girlfriends on the Island from eight until past eleven."

"All right, keep at it," Cragen told them. "Because the Chief of D's is going to start riding my ass hard if we don't make some progress on this killer soon."

"Jeffries, why don't you go ride the M.E.'s ass on getting us the final report today," Munch suggested, "even if it might not tell us anything different from the other victims so far. Who knows, we might catch a miracle this time, and it could at least rule out a copycat."

"I will. But after that, I'm going to have to head to the ADA's office to prep for court," she said. At John's puzzled expression she added, "The Gramercy Rapist case is finally going to trial, remember? They're doing jury selection right now."

John had totally forgotten and wasn't exactly thrilled by the news. "Damn, that's _this_ week?"

"Yeah. Hopefully this will only tie me up for a day or two. But there's no way I'm not going in well-prepared against Schoenfeld on the cross."

"True." And there was no way either of them wanted to see that sadistic rapist get off because of a slimy defense attorney tripping up a detective's testimony. "Okay, do your duty to get that one behind bars. I'll see what I can get done myself on this mess in the meantime."

Jeffries nodded in agreement and headed out of the bullpen. _Talk about shitty timing,_ John thought to himself. He really could have used the help these next few days while this latest murder was fresh. As much as he and Monique gave each other grief, he thought they were finally starting to work well together as partners. She had a sharper mind than Cassidy—though he missed Brian for reasons that went beyond the workplace. She was also a lot tougher than he'd first given her credit for being.

He could look to the others in the squad for help, but Benson and Stabler were busy with their own cases and truthfully, John wanted to try bag this killer without their assistance. He may have had more experience on the force in general but he still felt like a bit of a "new guy" here at SVU, in need of a few high profile closed cases to prove that he belonged. Maybe he wanted to prove that even more to himself than any of his superiors.

If he had to, he'd get Ken Briscoe to do some of the slog work for him; the kid was good at nit-picky things like scanning through the hotel's surveillance video for anything John and Monique had missed on their first pass. They hadn't been able to find anything showing when and how their perp left the hotel, but if she'd somehow changed her appearance before leaving, that would be helpful to know.

John made himself his first morning cup of tea and then spent a few minutes quietly studying the board, the map of assault locations and photos of the dead. The first two men, Andrew Chila and Joseph Desantis, had met their bloody ends in Riverside Park eight months ago. Then, two months later, Brian Glocker had been found dead in a by-the-hour hooker hotel in the Bowery. Six weeks ago, one William Hainsworth met a similar fate in a barely more upscale establishment near Penn Station. The venue for each crime had been improving, but the M.O. was always the same. And with the gaps in between the crimes, John and Monique had been left wondering if there might be other victims out there who had met a watery fate in the Hudson or East River, or maybe elsewhere outside of Manhattan. A few missing person cases before Chila and Desantis were found could potentially be connected to their victim given the similarity in those men's profiles but they couldn't definitively connect them yet, particularly without any bodies having turned up.

All in all it had become an infuriating puzzle. But before John checked on the status of Idler's LUD's, he had one other thing to find out first. He went to the captain's office, mug in hand, and knocked on the open door.

Cragen gazed up at him. "Something else you needed this morning, John?"

"Maybe. One more weird incident from last night at the crime scene that's been bugging me. You ever run across a Homicide detective out of Manhattan South by the name of Ezekiel Stone?"

Cragen sat back and frowned, clearly mulling it over in his mind. "For some reason the name sounds awfully familiar, like I _should_ know him, but...it's not ringing any bells right now. Why?"

"Guy by that name—or claiming to be by that name—was lurking around The Plaza. Said his supervisor sent him but I don't suppose _you_ heard anything about this becoming a cooperative investigation between our departments. Or why South would be after this case when most of the vics have been found in Midtown and North."

"Not a thing, though if this escalates to even more killings it wouldn't surprise me if we started hearing grief about not being able to handle this one on our own," Cragen said. "Want me to make any calls?"

"No, not yet. Not unless this Stone makes a nuisance of himself again and gets in my way. Just thought I'd mention it, but not out in an open briefing in the bullpen."

Cragen nodded. The two of them understood how much politics and interdepartmental shenanigans came with police work, and John had wanted to give Cragen a heads up as much as he'd been curious himself to find out if the captain knew anything.

Munch turned to leave when Cragen asked, "You get much sleep, John?"

John snorted. "You mean after the midnight call to the scene and then having the always wonderful job of notifying the deceased's wife in the wee hours of the morning? Not much more than a catnap in the crib when it was almost morning."

"Well, do what you can today but then try to get some rest."

"I look that much like the walking dead, do I?"

"I've seen corpses with more color," the captain said with a small smirk. "And you won't be of much use to us falling asleep at the wheel—or your desk."

"Understood."

* * *

Zeke didn't end up finding out too much at The Plaza. In fact the morning papers he read over a cup of coffee had been more helpful in getting him up to speed on the situation: a string of murders over the past eight months that seemed to be connected to one perpetrator targeting men of a certain age range and general appearance, all of whom had been out to "enjoy" the company of a prostitute for the evening. The reports talked about a similar M.O. in every case which linked them, but not much else beyond strangulation and bodily mutilation.

He knew that the police were clearly leaving out details in what they'd released to the press. That was standard to try to curtail copycats _or_ false reports by disturbed attention seekers. But it made his task harder unless he could get more information from the investigators on the case.

Which meant seeing about getting closer to that Munch character he'd run into at the scene. Maybe with the proper approach, he'd be a little more friendly and accommodating. Zeke asked for a phone book at the hotel to look up information on where to find the detective's precinct, and then headed in that direction. He was glad to be back in such a walkable city after his months in Los Angeles and other cities where getting around could be a real pain without a car...and the last thing he would ever do again is accept a bargain set of wheels from the devil.

* * *

John spent his morning at the precinct, pouring over Idler's LUDs and credit card statements while pouring caffeine into his system to stay awake. He made a list of some numbers and business names that he planned to look into further when his brainpower was up to normal functionality. He called a few jewelry stores on the list and described the necklace found at the scene, but none of them expressed any familiarity with the design as being something they'd created or carried.

He decided to take a walk that afternoon to clear his head, so he hit up a few pawn shops where he had established decent contacts with the owners, knew the guys working there would help spread the word. There might be a lot of hot property that ended up getting pawned, but when said property was connected to a high profile murder case like this one? Most of the better pawn brokers didn't want to be associated with that kind of business.

By five o'clock in the evening John truly did feel like a zombie on his feet and knew he had to call it a night. Better to start fresh in the morning, he knew, even if he hated not having more to show for the day's efforts. He wasn't even going to bring paperwork home to pretend he'd look at it because he knew he'd be asleep the minute he sat down on his sofa. But he did return to the precinct to clock out and check if Monique or anyone else had any updates for him. The M.E. report was waiting for him but on quick scan it seemed to provide no new information he had to look over now. Ken had nothing from the surveillance tapes and seemed as frustrated as John that they couldn't figure out how and when the suspect had left the building.

"She couldn't have simply vanished into thin air," the kid said. "And these cameras are supposed to cover every exit and entrance to the building."

"Well, if you find anything let me know. Not like she could have climbed out a window, jumped off the roof."

"Seriously. Don't worry, I'll keep working at it."

Before grabbing the subway home, John stopped in one of the squad's regular hang-outs near the station house. It was a comfortable, cop-friendly place that served hearty food for cheap and had decent beer on tap. He could use a drink and a light dinner, so he ordered a grilled chicken sandwich at the bar, with a side salad and a draft. Anything heavier than that wasn't going to sit well on his stomach, he knew that much.

He zoned out for a while as the tv over the bar droned on with the evening news. He seemed to have missed the opening local headlines which was fine; he didn't need to hear more about the case he'd been struggling with all these months.

Shortly after his food came out, John noticed someone slipping into the bar stool next to him, which seemed slightly odd given the place wasn't that crowded yet for the evening. He quickly glanced to his left, a little annoyed at the intrusion into his "personal space". Then it took a second, in his over-exhausted state, to recognize why the person sitting there seemed so familiar.

Recognizing the man didn't make John any more amenable to his sudden company.

"Detective Stone. What are you doing, stalking me?"

Stone gave him a small smile, looking vaguely apologetic. The guy certainly didn't _look_ Homicide, not the way he was dressed so casually in a pullover sweater and that same coat as the day before. John remembered what a stickler Gee always had been for them keeping up a dress code in Baltimore; were cops in New York _this_ much more casual? "I wanted to apologize for last night. I think, maybe, you and I got off on the wrong foot. I wasn't completely honest about why I was at your crime scene."

 _Well, at least he said "your",_ John had to concede, so he put his more cranky urges to tell the guy to fuck off aside. For now. "Tell you what, you buy the next round while I have my dinner, and I'll sit here and listen to your explanation."

Stone indicated to the bartender to come over when he had a chance. "What can I get you?" the man asked.

"Two of what he just had," Stone answered. As the bartender left to get their drinks, he began to explain, "I am from Homicide, like I said. But I think, maybe, I've been at it too long. It's starting to weigh me down. You know what I mean?"

"Yeah. I do know."

"I'm thinking about transferring out. I took a leave of absence recently, theoretically for family matters. But in reality..."

"You're sniffing around other departments to see what might make an advantageous transition?" John guessed.

"Not randomly. I'm primarily considering sex crimes for...I guess you'd say 'personal reasons'."

"If that's the case, then I strongly recommend against SVU as your next line of work." At Stone's curious expression, John explained, "If you take _these_ cases too personally you'll send yourself on a fast track to the funny farm. Or on a date with a bullet to your brain."

"Been there done that," Stone muttered, almost under his breath but John heard him and frowned.

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing." Their beers arrived and Stone slid a ten onto the bar to cover the drinks.

"You want to see a menu?" the bartender asked him.

"Nah, I'm good. Thanks."

Left alone again, John continued, "Listen, I worked Homicide sixteen years, down in the killing streets of Baltimore. Thought I'd seen it all until I transferred up here last year, believing sex crimes would be a satisfying change of pace." He left out the part about how it had been the _only_ position open to him then. "Take down some rapists, pedophiles and other assorted perverts. Sounded like commendable, noble work, right? But when half of your victims are still living, the other half killed in ways you really don't want to think about as much as you have to..." John paused take a drink of his beer. "Sometimes I find myself yearning for the days of simple deaths of vengeance, drug money and bloodlust."

"I get that. But like I said, I have my personal reasons." Stone took a sip of his own beer, paused, and then added, "My wife was raped a few years ago."

John grimaced in sudden understanding and sympathy. He should have picked up on it after all of these months. The guy had that same sad look that so many partners of rape victims did. "Shit. I'm sorry."

"Yeah. Me too. It was a break-in at our house. Here I was, driving home after putting in some overtime on a Saturday, in the car with some friends 'cause we're all gonna go catch a baseball game...I get to our house only to find the place trashed inside and my wife..."

Stone trailed off and John didn't really need to hear the rest. "They ever get the son of a bitch who did it?"

"Caught him and then had to cut him loose on a technicality. He turned up dead a few months later from a drug overdose."

"At least that's some kind of justice."

Stone shrugged. "You'd think. _I_ certainly wanted to think so. But things...nothing was the same between us after that. I mean, it didn't change how I felt about my wife, nothing could ever change that, but..."

"She left you," John filled in. At Stone's frown, he continued, "Trust me, I can spot a fellow member of the divorce club a mile away."

"It's not exactly that simple."

"It never is." John took a bite of his sandwich before it could get cold. "So, what do you want, Stone? You looking to shadow my case for a few days? Get a taste of what it's like working for sex crimes? This isn't exactly a rapist I'm after."

"I got that impression pretty clearly. But yeah...you could say I'm highly interested in seeing how this investigation unfolds."

"It's been unfolding and unraveling all around me for months. To be honest, maybe a fresh set of eyes wouldn't hurt," John had to admit.

"I assume there's details about the crime—and the suspected related cases—which haven't been released to the press."

"Of course. But I'm not about to ruin my dinner by discussing them now. If you want to trail around and find out more, you can meet me tomorrow morning. How about..." John considered his plans for the next day. "Ten a.m. at the Manhattan Art and Antiques Center on Second Avenue. I'll catch you up on the details and then I've got some evidence to show to a friend of mine there."

"Okay, thanks."

"Sure. Hey, my partner's tied up in court this week, I suppose you'll make a decent enough substitute. Just don't think you're going to steal away my case."

"Not on my life."

* * *

In another bar, further uptown, a woman sat sipping her own drink and waiting for someone to arrive. Someone...anyone, really. Tonight she was not feeling too particular. All she wanted was company, a man she could entertain to keep her mind from drifting to thoughts of the past, recent and far more distant.

She knew she shouldn't feel sad, but she did miss Thomas now, even if he had proven himself unworthy of her. She had decided to keep his ring for a while, not ready to let it go. Even though it only fit on her thumb, she could imagine what it would be like to finally find a man who would marry her and treat her with proper respect.

"Can I ask what the lady is drinking tonight?"

She turned to examine the man who had finally taken the bait. Fair-haired but balding, a little stocky, not entirely unattractive but not exactly the type she usually liked the most.

Maybe that was a good thing. She wasn't ready to fall for another tonight, but she could always use the money. This New York was not an inexpensive place to try to survive.

"An Old Fashioned," she said, taking a last sip from her tumbler to see if he'd offer to buy the next round.

"Funny, you don't look all that old fashioned to me."

"You might be quite surprised," she said.

"I love your accent, what is that, Italian?"

"Venetian," she corrected him. She still had trouble accepting, no matter how much this world had changed, that the city states of her past that had warred so much were now united into one country.

"Venice, the city of love! I should have known. Can I buy you another round? A beautiful lady like yourself shouldn't be drinking alone."

She glanced quickly at his hands—no wedding band, but she knew that meant nothing. Provided he treated her properly tonight she only wanted some casual company...or whatever else for which he'd pay her.

* * *

 ** _Thursday, April 13, 2000._**

Zeke arrived at the Antiques Center about a half-hour before ten, wondering exactly why Munch had wanted to meet here. He did have a few theories. Just as he had his gun and the clothes he wore the day of his death, many of the fugitives from Hell had brought things with them from their original life on Earth: garments, jewelry, or even an ancient weapon. Quite often those material items ended up being major clues in helping Zeke identify his quarry, so he was curious to see if that would be the case here. Perhaps something had been found or left behind in that hotel room in The Plaza. He hadn't found anything of interest when he'd checked out the crime scene yesterday morning, not after CSU had gone over it thoroughly.

He felt groggy this morning even though he knew it was all in his mind. He'd spent another night out on the streets, or rather in the park, as he'd been unable to find anywhere to stay for under twenty dollars a night without heading into seriously sketchy territory.

 _Maybe I'll have better luck tonight,_ he thought optimistically. Or maybe he'd finally have to start giving in to nefarious means of financing his endeavors...steal a credit card or wallet, break in somewhere looking for cash. He could only imagine the devil would love to see him committing "petty" crimes like that, as so many of the escapees were doing.

That was largely why he resisted that temptation so much.

What Zeke really needed was a job, so he could get himself a decent place to stay. Even a new outfit or two, purely for variety. Of course the devil would simply remind him that he already _had_ a job, working for Satan himself, and he should stop worrying about material comforts like having a bed to sleep in and a roof over his head since he was, after all, _dead_.

Zeke eventually spotted Detective Munch coming up Second Avenue, precisely on the hour. The guy certainly had a distinctive look about him, even if it seemed as out of place, out of another era, as Ezekiel himself. He wore a dark trench coat over his suit with a classic fedora hat and sunglasses shading his face. His attire seemed meant to bulk up a thin frame and he was actually an inch or so shorter than Zeke, but the clothes and his demeanor gave him an imposing presence.

 _Out of another era..._ The thought lingered in his mind. _I wonder if he could be one of the damned, too?_ After his experiences with Ash pretending to be a cop out in Los Angeles, Zeke had realized no one he encountered was above suspicion. And Munch had said he'd only transferred to New York about a year ago, which added more reason for him to wonder and worry.

He would keep his guard up, just in case. Otherwise Zeke was glad his story from yesterday, about considering a transfer to SVU, had apparently been convincing. Hopefully it would keep working for now, unless Munch decided to look too closely into Zeke's credentials and realized that he was seventeen years dead.

"Good morning, Detective," Munch greeted him after crossing the intersection.

"Morning. Care to tell me what we're doing here?"

"Eventually. I promised you coffee first, didn't I? And this place don't open for business for another half-hour." Munch nodded to indicate somewhere up the street. "There's a decent deli on the next block, shall we?"

"Lead the way."

* * *

John described the more bizarre details of the past year's killings, the things left out of the news reports, over coffee and toasted bagels.

"Burned off clean?" Stone said with clear surprise.

"Yeah, that's the weird part. Or at least one of the weird parts of these killings. We also haven't been able to get any DNA, or anything useful from skin or hair found on the victims from our perp. It's got the M.E. confused as Hell."

"I can imagine." Stone took a bite of his cream cheese-slathered everything bagel and let out a small, contented sigh. "Man, have I missed these..."

"Missed them?" John asked.

Stone looked briefly flustered. "I spent a while in California when I first took my leave of absence. I've only been back in the city for a little while."

"Ah."

"My wife lives out there now."

John raised an eyebrow at the other man. "If she's moved to California already, I think you might need to accept that your beloved is not coming home any time soon."

"I know. That's...largely what I came away realizing after the trip." John felt sympathy for the guy; he knew what it was like to be in love with someone who had already let go and moved on. "You said you're divorced?"

"Four times," John admitted. "Well, technically three at the moment. The last one's not yet in the books but believe me, I'm counting down the days."

It was Stone's turn, then, for a curious look. John raised his hands in defeat and said, "I know, I know. I guess I'm an eternal optimist that I'll eventually get it right in the love department. Unfortunately none of my ex-wives have shared my enthusiasm or commitment."

"Guess so." Stone shook his head and smiled a little. John found that smile distracting, as for an instant Stone reminded him more than a bit of his last partner, Cassidy. Older and a bit more scruffy, but there was a certain physical similarity there that made him miss the kid more than usual.

Their relationship hadn't been about love—it hadn't lasted nearly long enough to get to that point. It had been fun to have a younger, attractive guy like that infatuated with him, and so curious to learn the many things John had been eager to teach him. But between the job and Brian's sudden panic to reassert his heterosexuality by falling for Olivia, everything had eventually turned into a mess.

John shook off such thoughts, though, before Stone could wonder about him staring. "Anyway, to the case at hand—and what we're doing here, which I'm sure you've been wondering about."

"You could say that."

"We recovered a necklace in the hotel room at The Plaza," John continued. "Chain was broken, looked like our vic ripped it off his killer during the assault. Seems to be an antique piece of some kind and I'd like to try to find out some more about it, such as where it might have come from."

"Or who, or even when?"

"Exactly. This place down the block is where to go for information on antiques of all kind in this city. I'm curious to see if we can catch any leads from anyone there, and I know exactly who to ask first."

* * *

Robert Kaser, dealer in fine jewelry at the Manhattan Arts and Antique Center, let out a low whistle as he gently examined the necklace. "This is remarkable."

"Nice piece of work, is it?" Munch asked. Kaser's large, crowded shop on the basement floor of the Antiques Center was loaded loaded with silver, gold and gemstone adornments of all kinds. But the only piece he seemed interested in at all currently was the one he had removed from an evidence bag to place under his jeweler's lamp.

"Nice? It's extraordinary." Kaser's voice was filled with obvious reverence. The heavyset older man looked like he could barely move about the crowded store without banging into or breaking something, yet his hands handled the necklace with the delicate touch of a skilled surgeon. "Where on Earth did you come across this?"

"At a crime scene," replied Munch. "Left by a suspect who was in a bit of a hurry."

"They'd have to be, to leave something this valuable behind."

Zeke and Munch exchanged quick glances at Kaser's words. "What exactly are we talking about here?" Zeke asked.

"Impossible for me to put any kind of precise price tag on it without performing tests to verify the composition of the metals, confirm that the stones are real and not imitation or color-enhanced...but the design is clearly Renaissance-era, and most likely Italian."

"Which would fit our suspect's possible country of origin," Munch said.

"Yes, but to be walking around with a necklace such as this? Even if it's a more modern reproduction, as was popular in the nineteenth century, we're talking something worth tens of thousands of dollars...easily. And if it's an original from the Renaissance, well...I know museums that would pay even more to have something like this in their collection. Let alone what certain private collectors would bid at auction."

Munch appeared a little surprised, but told him, "Well, that'll have to wait until the day it's no longer needed in evidence."

Kaser laid the necklace down on the black velvet pad on his desk and sat back, rubbing his chin and frowning. "There's something about this necklace that feels incredibly familiar, as if I've seen it somewhere recently, or something very similar to it. I know you can't leave it with me here, but may I take a few photographs? For research purposes, and to check with some of my colleagues."

"Absolutely. Anything you could find out would be of great use to us." John gave Kaser several of his business cards with his contact information at SVU. "Maybe they might even know if the piece had been purchased recently, or brought in for an appraisal? Any information along those lines would be important at this stage of the investigation."

"Of course. Can I ask what your suspect is in trouble for?"

"I assume you heard the news about the murder Tuesday night at The Plaza?"

"The pecker thief?" Kaser exclaimed.

"Try not to sound so excited," Munch said. "I wouldn't be."

"Oh, yeah, no. Just...this is certainly a high priority case. I'll definitely see what I can do for you."

The detectives waited in the shop for several minutes while Kaser got his Polaroid out and took numerous photographs of the necklace. Zeke took a look around at the other pieces of jewelry on display, his eyes widening in shock as he peered closely at a few of the dangling price tags.

"I know," Munch said, noticing his expression. "Not exactly a lot here that's affordable on a cop's salary."

"I can't imagine paying the equivalent of a year's mortgage for a single piece of jewelry."

"There are people in this city who live in a different stratosphere than us mere mortals, Stone."

 _If you only knew_ , Zeke thought to himself. "So where are we off to next?"

"Another such business enterprise that caters to a selective clientele here in Manhattan. But first, we're going to get that necklace back to Evidence Control. I don't exactly feel like carrying around something that valuable in my coat pocket any longer than necessary."

* * *

"I assure you gentlemen that I run a perfectly legal operation," Leanna Covely, owner of Elite Uptown Models, said to the two detectives as they were seated in her office on Madison Avenue. She looked far more the part of a high-powered CEO than an upper-class madame, what with her subdued designer business suit, French nails and dark hair pulled up in a tight bun. "Our clients are some of the most prestigious men not only in New York but all along the East Coast. They rely on us for attractive, intelligent companionship for business and social gatherings."

"And they never, _ever_ would ask for more than conversation and a dance partner, I'm sure," John said with a smirk. "Tell me, how long has Thomas Idler been one of your clients?"

"You'll need a subpoena before you'll get any information like that from me and you should know that by now," she replied with a cool smile of her own. "Our clients value discretion and privacy above all else."

"Even more than their genitalia or their lives?" John shot at her. "I guess you haven't been following the news the past few days, Ms. Covely, or else you'd know that Idler is dead. Phone records indicate he called your office repeatedly over the past year, and there are credit card payments to a mysteriously named LLC that closely match the dates of those calls." John had tied the two together when he'd first gotten in to work that morning, before heading uptown to meet with Stone. "Two nights ago Idler was found strangled in a hotel room with his penis and ring finger hacked off. So you tell me—" John slid two photographs across her desk, one of Idler on the M.E.'s exam table, the other from the hotel's surveillance camera— "is this one of your girls that he was seen with, checking into The Plaza Tuesday evening? If so, I think you'd like to know if you're setting up your 'prestigious' clients with a cold-blooded killer."

Covely's professional demeanor slipped and faltered notably as she first glanced at the photo of the corpse, then Idler standing with the mystery woman beside him. She picked up that second photograph to examine more closely, reaching for a pair of glasses to get a better look.

"She _is_ one of yours, isn't she?" John pressed.

"No, she isn't, but...I think I may know who she is." Covely got up from her desk and went over to the large file cabinet against the far wall. She opened one drawer and began leafing through the folders within. Both detectives sat quietly, waiting, as she eventually pulled out one file, opened it to scan over, and then brought it over to her desk. She laid it open and John saw there was a photograph on the top of the documents, one which Covely was comparing to the individual in the image with Idler. "Tell me, Detectives, did your mystery woman speak with a heavy Italian accent?"

"According to at least one witness she did sound European, yes."

"Then I do think this is her, even though it's hard to say with complete certainty from your surveillance photo." Covely spun the folder around so that John and Stone could get a look at the photograph in the file themselves.

John felt a jolt of electricity, a buzz that came from fitting another piece of a murderous puzzle into place. Here was the face of his killer...he was certain of it. And she was beautiful, more so than he'd been able to tell from grainy videotape captures. Her eyes were dark and languid, a striking contrast to her amber-blonde hair that fell in soft curls over her shoulders. Her lips were slightly parted in invitation, painted deep red and with all of her make-up done with the perfection of a beauty model.

And if he had any lingering doubt, in the photograph she was wearing the same necklace as had been found at the crime scene. "What's her name?" John inquired, finding his throat unexpectedly dry.

"Valerie Simone. I save all applications I receive from those wanting to become one of my escorts, even the ones I reject. I never know, I might have a client come to me with uncommonly specific or unique tastes, outside of the usual profile I provide."

"So you turned her down," John said.

"I did. She came in about...three months ago, said she saw one of my advertisements in the _Village Voice_. She was certainly well-spoken, attractive, put together in a professional manner suitable for our clientele. Showed an extensive knowledge of European arts and culture which would appeal to my gentlemen who enjoy the opera, symphony, art museums and openings. But she was, well...also at least ten years older than most of the men we cater to are interested in having on their arm for the evening. Beyond that, something seemed a little..." Covely trailed off, as if uncertain how to express herself.

"Yes?" Zeke asked.

"Just... _off_. I couldn't quite put my finger on it at the time, but it was as if she were not merely from another country—which would have spoken in her favor, many of our clients have a taste for non-American women—but from another time period entirely." Covely took off her glasses and shook her head. "And I also sensed something dangerous about her. In my profession I have to trust my instincts, and my instincts told me she was trouble."

"I see," John said. "So you confirm, then, that you've never set her up on an 'appointment' with Idler."

"No, absolutely not. Mr. Idler has been a client of ours for several years, that's true. But for the past several months he's been requesting the company of another one of my girls. I can look that up for you if you give me a minute."

"By all means."

For this she went to her desktop computer, typing away while John scanned the file in front of him. There was a one page questionnaire, answered by hand in a script so flowing and tiny to be almost indecipherable to his eyes. The other pages included several more photos, obviously taken here at Covely's offices, full body and close up, as well as Covely's own written notes from her interview. John didn't get a chance to read them over before Covely said, "Here it is, Renee. Renee Casella. She was the one who was supposed to meet with Idler on Tuesday for a date to the opera."

Covely spun the computer monitor around so that both detectives could see the screen. This Renee was also blonde, like Valerie, but clearly munch younger—perhaps in her early twenties at best. "Renee is a delightful girl majoring in Dramatic Literature at Hudson."

"When was the last occasion you spoke to Renee?" Stone asked, his question clearly echoing the same thoughts suddenly crossing John's mind.

"I can't recall, it may have been a while...my secretary usually contacts the girls when I have an appointment for them, unless I have some specific details about the client I need to discuss with them directly. Payment for their services is made by direct deposit into their bank accounts so...we don't tend to have a lot of direct contact unless there are problems or they have questions for me."

"Has she seen any other clients recently?" John wanted to know.

"No. Renee is fairly busy with her senior year studies and generally prefers to only have one client at a time. Idler has seemed quite taken by her so he has been exclusively asking for her since their first appointment."

"We're going to need a copy of Valerie's application and these photographs," John said, "as well as Renee's address and contact information."

"Very well," Covely agreed, concern evident on her face. "You don't think..."

John didn't quite want to voice what he was thinking, that Valerie may have disposed of Renee to take her place after being rejected by Covely. He was saved by the beeping of his pager going off. Seeing the number and name displayed, he asked, "Excuse me, do you mind if I use your phone for a minute while you make those copies for us? This could be relevant to our investigation."

"Please, help yourself."

* * *

Zeke didn't get much trying to listen to Munch's half of the conversation and the detective didn't say anything about it until they were in the elevator, leaving Covely's office with copies of the relevant paperwork.

"You thinking Valerie may have done something to Renee?" Zeke asked.

"Working on the assumption that this is definitely our killer, and given her previous homicidal activities? I wouldn't put it past her," Munch replied. "That or we can hope that perhaps Renee has been 'outsourcing' her appointments if her school schedule has been so busy, but that's a long shot."

They stepped out of the elevator and headed for the street. Zeke said, "Time to check in on Ms. Casella, then?"

"Later today, absolutely. But that was Kaser who paged me. He thinks he's already got something for us on the necklace. Wants to meet up at the Metropolitan Museum while he can take a break from his store this afternoon."

The drive uptown only took about twenty minutes as they were an hour or so before the real rush hour crunch would begin. Munch parked in the museum's connected underground garage. "A benefit of being a member here," he explained. "Discount parking, and it's easier than finding street parking anywhere in this neighborhood." In a few minutes they were upstairs in the main lobby, where Kaser was easy to spot waving them over to the central information kiosk.

"So, care to explain to me why we're meeting here?" Munch asked. "Don't tell me our _femme fatale_ has also robbed the Met."

"No, nothing like that. But I knew there was something incredibly familiar about that necklace when you showed it to me. You'll see, upstairs."

The two detectives followed Kaser up the grand central staircase of the museum, brushing through the late afternoon crowds to get to the top landing. "I wracked my brain all morning trying to remember why that necklace was so familiar. Like something out of a catalog...a museum catalog. Then it hit me, because I'd just been here not more than a couple weeks ago for the Chardin exhibit. Besides the fact that I know the permanent collection of European art here like the back of my hand."

Kaser walked with determination past the first spacious hall of Italian paintings to a second room full of even more vibrant canvases, large and small. Zeke knew next to nothing about this kind of art; it had never been in his range of interest. Rosalyn had dragged him here once or twice, but to be honest the seemingly endless paintings of saints, angels, and crucifixions had all blurred together in his mind.

Now they made him more than a little queasy.

In the second room, Kaser headed straight for one medium-sized painting in an elaborate gold frame. It was a portrait of a woman in fancy blue dress against a dark background. Her bodice had been undone to expose her breasts, and she regarded the viewer invitingly, as if beckoning to draw you into her world.

"I'll be damned," Munch said, and Zeke winced. But then he took a closer look at the painting and noticed the expertly painted necklace around the subject's neck.

"I knew it! I knew it looked similar to the piece you showed me," Kaser beamed.

"Similar? It's practically a direct reproduction." Munch stepped back, looking at the painting over the upper rim of his glasses. "And with blurry vision or a pair of beer goggles, the subject even looks like she could be a younger, somewhat more robust vision of our perp."

"Then whoever she is," Kaser said, "she's aiming high in trying to imitate this vision of beauty."

"Who is this woman?" Stone asked.

"Valeria Simonetti," Kaser answered. "Only one of the most famous courtesans of sixteenth century Venice."

"A.k.a. Valerie Simone...?" Munch said quietly to Stone. "She _is_ being clever with this act, isn't she?"

Zeke said nothing in response, though he did turn to Kaser for clarification. "Courtesan?"

"The high class hookers of their day," Munch explained.

"Oh, but they were considerably more than that!" Kaser corrected him. "Courtesans such as Simonetti were highly regarded not only for their beauty but for their education and artistic skills, and ability to provide intellectual stimulation."

Munch smirked. "As well as stimulation a more physical kind, no doubt."

"Of course." Kaser grinned. "But the _Cortigiana Onesta_ , or 'honest courtesans' like Valeria, were some of the most powerful women in Venice. For a young woman whose family could not afford a decent dowry, becoming a courtesan was often seen as a preferable fate to being locked up in a convent. Courtesans mingled with members of the noble families, the Council of Ten, even foreign emissaries and kings. They could read and write, they had freedom to travel the city and beyond without escort...The church even turned a blind eye to their prominence in the region. It was believed these women helped discourage an even more terrible sin than infidelity, one which was rampant in other cities such as Florence yet kept manageable in fair Venezia with all of her lovely ladies."

"And that more terrible sin would be..." Munch began.

"Homosexuality."

Munch raised his eyebrows at Zeke, then sighed. "Great. So we've got a woman who, for some reason, is trying to make herself into a modern day Valeria. But I'm guessing her fame didn't come from making off with some of her customers' genitalia."

"Certainly not."

"What did happen to her?" Zeke was trying to read the brief biographical notes on the subject next to the portrait. "Sounds like she died fairly young, at least by today's standards...in her early forties?"

"Yes. Not so uncommon for courtesans I'm afraid, honest ones or not. Venereal disease claimed many in her profession just as it does today, and childbirth was always a high risk for all women in that era. That said, Valeria's death was even more grim. In 1575 she fled Venice—as many who had the financial means did—to escape the plague that was ravaging the city. Over sixty thousand died before the danger passed. But when she returned to Venice, she found all of her remaining fortunes gone. Her home had been looted, and Venice as a whole was far less welcoming to courtesans and prostitutes than before. The church needed someone to blame for God's wrath in killing so many in the plague and these women made an easy target."

"Typical," Munch said.

"Valeria faced charges of witchcraft before an Inquisition," Kaser continued, "and where before some of her wealthy clientele might have held sway and paid some extra alms to the church to see her to freedom, those remaining alive were cowered into disowning her to protect their own self interests. Even her most ardent admirer, Giorgio Barbarigo, the individual who originally commissioned this portrait? Even he would not put his own neck on the line to save her. She was convicted and sentenced to public execution."

"Hell of an end to an illustrious career," Munch said.

"Hell indeed," Zeke agreed.

"Legend tells that not only did she refuse to repent for her sins before her death, but she cursed the church, God, and all of Venice while being lead to be burned alive in St. Mark's Square."

The two detectives studied the painting for a while longer, although Zeke had to imagine his reasons and understanding of Valeria were quite different from Munch's. "Well, I'm not exactly clear on _how_ this will help us, but it certainly is an interesting connection. I owe you lunch, Kaser," Munch told him.

"Hey, anytime at all. Nice when I can put my obscure knowledge to real use for a change."

As they were leaving the Renaissance galleries, Kaser promised to fax over some more information on Valeria and this painting in particular by the next morning. "You know, the Met sometimes offers replica pieces of the jewelry featured in its paintings and other collections...I can find out if they've ever offered one of the necklace in Valeria's portrait."

"You do that," Munch told him, "and you'll have my eternal thanks."

Kaser hurried off to return to his shop before the after-work shoppers arrived. The two detectives followed him out soon after, Zeke only wishing he could reveal what he was now certain of: his current target was none other than Valeria Simonetti herself, not a modern-day wannabe as Munch suspected—and as all the evidence any sane, rational, _living_ human being with no experience with the afterworld would believe.

Now to locate her...and then to lose Munch so that he could take care of Valeria in the manner only Zeke could.

From the museum they headed over to the address Covely had given them for Renee Casella. She lived in an apartment above a Columbus Avenue storefront on the Upper West Side. No one answered when they rang the downstairs buzzer for her unit. Neither did anyone pick up when Munch used a payphone and tried her telephone number; the answering machine message was automated, no name given or voice to hear. He hung up. "Might have to try to find out who the landlord or property manager is so we can get inside, but that could take until tomorrow," Munch said.

"We can stakeout the place tonight to see if Renee or Valerie shows up," Zeke suggested.

Munch nodded. "About our only option currently, unless someone shows up who'd be willing to let us upstairs to check on her." He nodded across the street. "Coffee shop over there should give us a decent view and I could use some caffeine."

They grabbed a table near the windows so they could keep an eye on the street. Pedestrian and road traffic were beginning to pick up as they were getting closer to the end of the work day, taxis swarming and cars honking along the crowded avenue.

They kept up only minor small talk as they sat and watched, John going through the notes from Covely while Zeke kept an eye on the outside. At one point, though, Zeke went to take a sip of his coffee and he noticed Munch's gaze focused intently on _him_ and not the city outside. "What?" he asked, wariness kicking in.

Munch blinked and shrugged it off. "Just noticed something. Either you have an incredibly monochromatic wardrobe or you've been wearing the exact same outfit the past three days."

Zeke had heard similar remarks before. He tried to dismiss them away by joking, "Never been much for fashion. I find something I like, that's comfortable, I stick to it."

"I bet that thrilled your wife."

"Made laundry day easy."

Munch smiled a bit at that, allowing for a rare (to Zeke's observance so far) softening of detective's grim expression. He was a curious man, Zeke was beginning to realize, not quite the hard case he'd pinned him for that first evening at the hotel. Behind the air of sarcastic indifference there seemed to be someone with a deep emotional core...and maybe a few secrets buried deep in there he didn't want close to the surface.

Zeke could identify with that all too well, and it was why he saw so clearly through the cracks in the other's careful façade.

Munch checked his watch and seemed anxious. Zeke asked, "Worried how late we're going to have to sit around here?"

"No. I have something personal...a meeting scheduled for this evening, at six-thirty. I should cancel since it'll tie me up for an hour or two."

"You don't have to," Zeke offered, trying not to sound too eager as he saw an opportunity to take this stakeout in his _own_ direction. "Doesn't take two of us to keep an eye on the street. I can stay here. Anything comes up, I see either Renee or Valerie enter or leave the building, I'll page you."

Munch seemed momentarily uncertain, but then shrugged. "All right. I won't be far, just in Midtown. Should be done by eight."

"Not a problem."

John took out a ten and slid it across the table. "To keep you in caffeine until I get back."

"Thanks." Zeke wasn't one to turn down cash. Now he only had to hope his fugitive would show up before Munch returned.

* * *

About thirty minutes later, John was at the bar at Rosie O'Grady's, waiting for his dinner partner to arrive. He felt slightly guilty for leaving Stone outside Renee's building on his own, but he could use a break away from the case, even if only for a fast bite with a friend he hadn't seen in a while. That, and he wanted to run a few things by this friend of his before letting this new "partner" get too deeply involved in his case.

He stuck to a glass of wine while killing a few minutes—and only one since he had to return to work soon enough. He'd just finished his drink when he spotted the person he'd been waiting for step inside the restaurant. He waved him over and greeted him with a warm smile and a friendly slap on the shoulder. "Lennie, thanks for coming."

Lennie Briscoe gave John a smooth grin of his own. "Hey, who am I to turn down an invitation when John Munch is buying dinner? Our table ready?"

"Should be, all the theater birds have rushed out to make curtain time." John checked with the hostess who was able to seat them immediately, a comfortable table away from the noisier bar at the front of the room.

"Fair warning: don't think you get to have your way with me because you're buying me a steak," Lennie teased as he took his seat.

"In that case, we're sticking to hamburgers," John replied lightheartedly. That was the way they got along, and part of what he liked about the guy—even if he _had_ slept with one of his ex-wives. As far as John was concerned, he supposed it gave them some kind of common ground. "But don't worry, it's not your body I'm after tonight."

"I'm crushed."

"Sorry to disappoint. It's your brain power I need. In particular, information on someone you might have run across in Homicide here in Manhattan."

"Sure, okay. Hopefully not someone too far in my past, although I have a few memories of those days not completely lost to Johnny Walker."

"Then let's feed that brain of yours some protein. Then we can talk shop."

The two ordered, ate and chatted about non-pressing matters for most of the meal. "So New York's treating you well?" Lennie asked. "What's it been, about a year now since you came up here?"

"Just about. And so far, so good. Truthfully I was more than happy to get out of Baltimore when I did."

"Charm City lost all of its charm for you, huh?"

"In more ways than one. Then again, I didn't think I'd be spending my second act on the force chasing after hookers with a taste for strangulation—and castration."

Lennie's eyes widened. "Don't tell me you caught the Weenie Whacker case!"

"Weenie Whacker, Pecker Thief, Choke and Hack..." John rattled off. "I've heard 'em all the past few months. Lucky me."

"God bless you."

"Seems more like God is cursing me with this one."

"So who were you trying to sniff out information on, then?" Lennie finally asked as they were finishing their entrees. "Not someone related to this case, I can't imagine."

"Not directly, at least. A Homicide detective out of Manhattan South. He's been hanging around the past few days since the last murder at The Plaza. Claims he's thinking about transferring to SVU. Something doesn't feel kosher to me about the entire situation. That's why I wanted to see if you knew anything about him. Guy's name is Ezekiel Stone."

Lennie sat back and looked clearly surprised. "Ezekiel Stone, huh? Now _there's_ a name I haven't heard in years."

"But you have heard it."

"Sure. He was one of the best of the best. The kind of cop you hated for being so damn good at the job and making the rest of us poor schlubs look bad in comparison, you know?"

John thought of one Frank Pembleton and said, "I know precisely."

"Yeah. Stone was the kind of cop you figured would go far, make captain some day. Maybe even higher up the food chain than that. Only there's one problem, if he's coming around talking to you."

"What's that?"

"Ezekiel Stone is _dead._ "

It was John's turn to sit back—or rather fall back in his chair. "Excuse me?"

"Unless this is someone else with a highly uncommon name working in the same field almost two decades later. The only Ezekiel Stone I ever heard of or ran into was killed on the job in the...early eighties, at least. Hell of a thing when it happened, too."

"How was that?"

"I remember something about..." Lennie paused, tapping his knife on the table as if to jar loose a memory. "Something bad happened with his family."

"Wife was raped?"

"Yeah, that's it. That's it. Weird series of events, that's why I remember it. His wife was raped, and you know how it is. Someone messes with a family that's part of the blue brotherhood, everyone was on the street looking for blood. They got the rapist, but then the scumbag gets off. Next thing you know..." Lennie shrugged, "scumbag ends up dead. Rumor starts going around, maybe Stone saw to that himself, though can't say anyone would blame him for it. Courts can't always provide the justice these slimeballs deserve."

John nodded, dully.

"Not much later, Stone ends up getting killed on a bust gone bad. They found him so torn up with bullets there wasn't much left to identify him by, at least not from the neck up."

"Leaving some possibility it wasn't...actually him?" John wondered aloud.

"Sure, maybe some talk of that, too. But what're you gonna do? We didn't have the forensics tech then like we do now to authenticate remains. And no one raised any serious questions until well after the fact on that. Like only about...not even a few years ago. That's why it's still kind of fresh in the old noggin. This one detective said a guy who looked exactly like Stone was spotted around several crime scenes from one of his cases. Next thing you know, _that_ detective's partner is dead, and _he's_ taking early retirement to go be a missionary or something equally ridiculous."

"Terrific. So now this—Stone, or whoever is claiming his identity—has set is sights on me and _my_ case." As if it wasn't enough John was dealing with a hooker imitating a long-dead Venetian courtesan. Now he had a guy imitating a long-dead police officer, and one who had screwed up the last cops he'd targeted.

Lennie gave him an apologetic look. "Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but you did ask."

"It's appreciated, trust me. Before I get myself in any deeper trouble with this character." John caught their waitress' eye and signaled for the check. "Sorry to eat and run, Lennie, but needless to say this revelation has ruined any appetite for dessert on my part."

"Raincheck then. I'll buy next time. Ice cream at Louie G's on Coney Island as soon as the weather breaks." Lennie's easy smile faded for a minute and he added more seriously, "You going to confront him? You want some back-up?"

"Yes to the first, no to the second. I can handle myself. But thanks."

And handling Stone was exactly what John needed to do, as soon as possible.

* * *

Zeke was glad for the excuse to keep an eye on Renee's building without Munch hanging around. If it led to a face-to-face with Valeria, he hoped he'd be able to get a clean shot at her—figuratively and literally. He wanted to do that alone and without endangering the detective, or anyone else who might be in the vicinity.

If neither woman made an appearance soon, Zeke was considering finding an alternative way inside the building. He had few doubts that Valeria had likely killed Renee to take over not merely her apartment but in many ways, her life. It would make sense as a way for her to build a clientele and try to survive in this world. But for the moment he'd sit and wait, and try to make sense of this particular fugitive, her story.

 _Which of these tattoos is Valeria's?_ he wondered, pulling up the right sleeve his sweatshirt to study his arm. _And what did she do to end up in Hell?_

"Contemplating the great mysteries of the universe, Ezekiel?"

If he wasn't so used to the devil's out-of-nowhere appearances Zeke might've jumped out of his skin. As it was, he merely rolled his eyes at the figure who had suddenly materialized across from him at the table. Tonight the devil was dressed in a dapper tuxedo, a red rose boutonniere pinned to his chest.

"Yeah," Zeke said, "like what you're all dressed up for tonight."

"Ah, an evening at the opera, my good detective! One of my absolute favorites is being staged tonight. _Faust,_ of course. Thought I'd show up to give a little personal 'inspiration' to the singer performing Méphistophélès."

"I'm sure he'll truly appreciate it. So tell me," Zeke asked, leaning across the table, "why Valeria Simonetti was sentenced to Hell. Simply for being a prostitute?"

"Not hardly. God has a bit of a soft spot for whores, at least the repentant ones like old Mary Magdalene. No, Valeria's crime was her blasphemy, rejecting and cursing God in her hour of death."

"So for that, she's been tortured and imprisoned in Hell for over four centuries."

The devil raised his hands in a helpless gesture. "I don't make the rules, Ezekiel. If you don't like the system, blame God, not me."

Zeke could only shake his head. "She was stuck living in an era and environment that gave her no other options to survive. I don't think it's fair."

"And clearly, neither does Madame Simonetti. But before you get out the violins or sing a song of sorrow for this fallen soul, don't forget about what she's done since returning to Earth. Killing and mutilating all of those men...hardly seems like the actions of a noble, fair and 'honest' woman to me. What about you, Detective?"

Zeke hated it when the devil was right.

"My my my, will you look at the hour? I'd better get going if I don't want to miss the overture. You, too, might want to stay alert, Mr. Stone. I don't want you to miss your chance to score tonight. But I'd watch out for this fair lady's caresses...I hear they can burn you through to your very soul."

In a blink of the eye, the devil disappeared. Zeke sipped his now tepid coffee, contemplating if he'd use some of the cash Munch had given him to buy a pastry. But then he saw her, across the street. A woman with long, amber-blonde hair, carrying herself with a style and allure that made her stand out in the crowd.

Valeria. It had to be her.

Zeke watched as she walked up the block to the building entrance, then let herself inside. He waited a few minutes longer, contemplating his plan of action. He could hover by the door and hope someone would let him up, especially if he showed his badge...or he could try something a little more direct, he thought, as he took note of the flower stand at the corner of the block.

He gulped down the last of his coffee, left some change on the table for a tip and departed. He headed first to that flower stall and contemplated the various bouquets and single flowers available.

"Yes sir, can I help you?" the woman running the stand asked.

"Yeah, ah...what kind of arrangement can I get for..." he paused, checking the money in his pocket. He wanted to try to save at least twenty dollars for tonight if he could. "Um...twelve dollars?"

She seemed a little disappointed with his budget but then busied herself grabbing a few stalks of this and a few stems of that. "Three dollars more, I add in some roses?" she offered, holding up what so far was a mixture of white daisies, baby's breath and fern leaves.

"Okay, that's fine," Zeke agreed. He couldn't look too cheap if he was going to pull this off.

Zeke finished the transaction and then carried his bouquet over to the building entrance. He remembered Renee's unit was number 503, from the paperwork Covely had given Munch. He rang the buzzer once, waited, but got no answer. He rang it again, holding down the button, and a few seconds later heard a muffled _"Yes?"_ come through the intercom.

"I have a flower delivery for...Renee Casella?" he said.

 _"Renee is not here today."_

"Could you sign for it? I don't want to leave this out here on the sidewalk."

There was a short pause and then he heard the door buzz unlocked. Zeke hurried inside and hustled to the elevator, one hand on the bouquet, the other checking on the gun in his coat pocket.

The elevator doors opened onto the fifth floor. Zeke walked down the hallway as calm as he could manage, though if his heart still beat he was certain it would be going at a double-time pace. As often as he had done this by now, there was always a certain tension that came with first confronting one of the damned.

He knocked on the door for apartment 503. "Please, a minute," he heard from inside. And even from out here, in the corridor, he could sense it, feel the presence of another one like him near-at-hand. It was skill he'd only developed with experience, after all of the prey he'd tracked and returned to Hell so far. A subtle dark energy that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up...and the faintest hint of brimstone in the air.

The door was unlocked and then cracked opened, until the security chain inside went taught. Zeke peered around with a smile, trying to look cheery and non-threatening. Valeria studied him through the narrow opening, her dark eyes hard and distrustful.

He'd be, too, after four centuries in Hell.

"I'm sorry," Zeke began. "This is Renee Casella's address, isn't it? My boss'd be real mad if I left the flowers at the wrong place."

"Yes, it is, but as I said, Renee is not here. I'm her...roommate." The woman spoke with a heavy Italian accent, as witnesses at the hotel and Ms. Covely had described previously. "I'm afraid she is away."

"Hey, I just have to deliver the flowers. Pretty lady like you," Zeke tried to lay on the charm, a skill that he felt incredibly awkward about after all these years, "I'm happy to give them to you instead."

That finally earned him a smile. The door closed again momentarily as Valeria undid the chain and then swung it open fully. She had already changed out of the clothes she'd been wearing on the street and into a floral, silky robe. The sight of her was enough to make Zeke's breath catch, deadly fugitive from the afterlife or not. She did have a certain something about her that was enough to turn a man inside-out with desire...perhaps a power which had only been intensified during her centuries in Hell. But he also knew how deadly she was, so he kept his cool and cautiousness.

"Please, won't you come in?" she invited him. "You are too kind with your charming words. I want to give you something for your troubles."

"Thank you, ma'am. I appreciate it."

"Ma'am," she repeated with a small laugh. "You _are_ a gentleman." She took the flowers from him and then padded on bare feet toward what appeared to be the apartment kitchen.

"That's me, old fashioned, I guess." Zeke stepped inside and took a quick glance around the space, getting his bearings, verifying there was indeed no one else in the unit. "You aren't from around here, are you? New York, I mean."

"No, I'm from somewhere quite far away. Almost another world, it sometimes feels, to me." She came out of the kitchen counting some dollar bills.

For a second Zeke hated what he had to do next. He almost always hated it. But he knew the longer he waited, the more danger he himself would be in.

"I understand," he said, grip tightening on the gun in his pocket. "And that's why I'm here to send you home."

He only said it to catch her eyes, wide in question, instead of looking down at the money in her hands. She looked up at him just as he drew the weapon and fired off his first shot but he wasn't fast enough for her superhuman speed. The gunfire rang in his ears and she was on him, screaming, hands clawing at his neck, his face, as she hurled him to the ground.

 _"Bestia!"_ she screeched, her brown eyes afire with the flames of Hell.

Zeke flinched against the burning touch of her fingers searing his skin. He tried to blank out the pain enough to push her off of him, summoning his own demonic strength to roll free and hurl her across the room. She landed hard, against the far wall, sending a framed poster flying and the glass shattering to the ground.

Both were temporarily stunned. Zeke staggered to his feet, soon as he regained his senses, checking he hadn't lost his gun. She glowered at him from across the room, preparing for another attack. "Agent of Satan, who are _you_ to think you can send me back there!" she hissed at him.

"I'm only doing my job, Valeria. You don't belong here." His voice was weak, his throat burned and if he'd been mortal she probably would have crushed his windpipe with her attack.

"Never. Curse God and the devil for eternity, I will kill you all first!"

"Hey, what's goin' on here?!" someone demanded from the corridor.

"Get out of here, now!" Zeke warned, but in the split second he turned away he then heard another shattering sound, more glass breaking as Valeria made her exit through the living room window. Zeke rushed to peer out through the shattered glass just to see her land roughly on the ground in the alley outside. Dazed for only a second, she was quickly to her feet and fleeing into the darkness of the night.

" _Dammit_ ," Zeke cursed, frustrated and angry at himself. He shouldn't have missed that first shot. Had he hesitated, even for a fraction of a second, out of guilt for what he had to do? Hesitation wasn't simply a death sentence for him; it was a one way ticket to eternal damnation.

"Drop the gun and turn around, Stone."

The voice commanding him now was cold, harsh, but familiar. Zeke turned around cautiously but didn't let go of his weapon, though he held it down, pointed toward the ground. Detective Munch had his own service weapon drawn and trained on Zeke's heart.

Or at least, where it would be if he still had one.

"I said, drop the gun," Munch repeated slowly. "Stone. If that's even who you are. Or did you really think you could impersonate a dead hero cop in this city without getting caught?"

"Get out of here, John. Let me handle this," Zeke pleaded softly, coughing at the fire in his throat.

"Handle this. Handle _what?!_ You messing up my case? Pretending to be someone who's dead and buried? I need to know what the _Hell_ is going on here!"

"You're right. It is Hell. And I don't want to drag you into it. So let me go and let me finish my job, and you can get back to do yours." The longer he was held up here, the further Valeria was getting away from him. "Just forget about this one. It's not worth it to you. It means salvation for me."

"No," Munch insisted, even as his aim seemed to be wavering. "You're going to put the _goddamned_ gun down and come with me because you're under arrest."

"I wish I could, but I can't. I'm sorry." Zeke sighed and started to turn toward the window. He heard more than felt the first bullet, its impact little more than that of a dull thud against his body. A second followed almost immediately afterward, which only pissed him off because it meant he'd have to get his coat mended again. And bullet holes were expensive to fix.

He peered over his shoulder at Munch, a little sadly, seeing the sheer confusion and shock on the detective's face. He'd genuinely started to like the guy after their brief days working and talking together. That's why he didn't want him tangled up in this mess any further. "Not worth wasting your bullets on me. I'd explain but I've got to go."

Falling always hurt like, well... _Hell_. There was no other way to describe it. But his body had been broken and mended itself over and over again, and he'd jumped out of windows and off rooftops far higher than five stories before.

Even so, it took a few seconds to collect himself before he could stagger to his feet. He figured he'd lost Valeria, but he had to try to pick up her scent. A feint hint of sulfur drifted through the air and he couldn't lose track of it.

He cast one quick look upwards before fleeing, catching sight of Munch staring out the window after him.

Zeke started running.

* * *

 ** _Friday, April 14, 2000_**

The last place John wanted to be this morning was at work.

He would much prefer to crawl back into bed and sleep for a solid seventy-two hours. Maybe if he did, he would wake up Monday morning and discover that this past week had never happened.

He'd find out that there had never been a murder at The Plaza. That he hadn't run into a man claiming to be Detective Ezekiel Stone. That he hadn't started to put his trust in someone who was apparently _dead,_ whom he'd pumped two rounds into without even a flinch, who had jumped out of a fifth floor window and barely paused before taking off into the darkness.

By every pantheon of Gods he didn't believe in, John wanted to wish this past week out of existence. Either it was all some kind of mad fever dream or he was going to have to break down and finally start seeing a shrink, because he was certain it all had to mean he was starting to lose his mind.

His scattered and morbid thoughts were curtailed when a seemingly magical creature appeared beside him, bearing a fresh cup of coffee. John looked up and was surprised to find Monique leaning against his desk with a worried smile. "Hey. Thought you could use this."

"You are a goddess, Monique. And I mean that in an entirely non-sexist but suitably grateful way."

"For once I actually believe you." Her smile faded and she asked, "You okay, John? I hear you had an interesting day yesterday on the hunt for our perp, and then an even more interesting evening."

"'Interesting'. Yeah. That's one way to put it. Another might be 'migraine-inducing'." She pulled over her own chair and he then went through the details, starting with Kaser and the necklace, then seeing Covely about the escort service calls from Idler and how that led to the stakeout at Renee's building. For now he only left out mention of Ezekiel Stone's presence through all of this, and told her the same _slight_ fabrication that he'd told the uniforms and CSU officers at the scene last night. "I got to Renee's apartment only to hear screaming voices, then gunfire...sounded like someone else was having a confrontation with our suspect. I ran in and they were both gone. A window had been shattered in the living room but there were no signs of blood...one or both of them could have jumped to the fire escape stairs to escape. I was on scene by myself; didn't expect to need back-up or have anyone stationed in the alley."

Jeffries shook her head. "Crazy stuff."

"Got even crazier once we found the bones in the linen closet," John said.

Bones which appeared to be all that was left of Renee Casella. The M.E. was working to confirm identity based on dental records, but that added yet one more level of strangeness to this already bizarre case.

"Yeah, I can't wait to hear that one." Monique shook her head. "What did Simone do, burn all of the flesh off this girl's body with acid? You'd think someone in that building would have heard—or _smelled_ —something."

"You'd think." But canvassing the building had given up nothing. John was almost glad for that; the one resident who said he heard a man and woman screaming and fighting had high-tailed it out of there just as John arrived on the scene. So he hadn't heard the other shots...the ones from John's gun, which had been intended to stop Stone.

John had recovered the bullet casings off the floor before calling in for back-up at the scene. "Did the unis in the neighborhood get anything from that woman who was found unconscious and stripped to her undies a few blocks from Renee's apartment?" he asked.

"Not much. She vaguely remembers a blonde-haired female coming up to her and looking like she was in distress, wearing only a flimsy dress or robe of some kind. Sounds like our perp fled before she could get dressed, so she went after the first person she could find who was at all similar in size. Took her purse with all of her I.D. and credit cards...naturally we've put her banks on alert in case anyone tries to use the cards for cash or purchases."

John nodded distractedly. He was ready to be done with this case already, or to simply think about anything else for a while. "So how did court go?" he asked, eager to change the subject.

"Like aces. Defense is making their case today but I don't think they have much of one."

"Nice. At least that's something agreeable to come out of this week."

"Munch, Jeffries," Captain Cragen called out, walking over to their desks. "I know you've got your hands full with your murderous lady of the evening, but we've got a rape victim in at Lenox Hill. I need someone to get over to the hospital asap, see if she's willing to make a statement and do a rape kit. Apparently this guy did a number on her, but she is conscious and cooperative. I need someone else to get over to the crime scene, talk to neighbors, canvas the area while it's fresh. Benson and Stabler are out on another call, or else I'd give this one to them."

"I'll head to the hospital," Monique offered, getting to her feet.

"Good call. I'll take the crime scene," John said. "I assume it's in UES if she's at Lennox Hill?"

Cragen nodded. "The victim lives on East 74th. She's a Hunter College student. Anything comes up on your other case today, I'll page you."

* * *

John tried to focus his attention on the day's new case, talking to residents of complex on 74th where the victim lived and checking out the businesses on the street. It was hard to fully clear his mind of the events of yesterday, however, and it kept distracting him. How could he focus on something this mundane—even if brutal and terrible as every case like this they handled—when last evening he'd witnessed events that seemed humanly impossible?

He was hung up on trying to find logical explanations for what he had seen and witnessed. Maybe Stone had been wearing a bulletproof vest under that sweatshirt and bulky coat of his, John tried to rationalize. Even so, he should have reacted more significantly to being shot twice at close range. He should have staggered or been stunned, not simply stood there and acted as if he'd experienced nothing worse than a mosquito bite.

And then leaping out the window...he _had_ done that. John had _seen_ him do it, right before his eyes. Yes, there was a fire escape outside but Stone had made a clean jump to the ground. Gotten there too quick to have used the escape simply couldn't have happen. It was impossible.

"Detective? Was there anything else you needed to know?" A young woman's voice startled him from his thoughts. He was standing in the middle of a coffee shop across the street from the victim's apartment. "If not I need to deal with my customers, people get cranky around here when it takes too long to get their morning lattes."

"Sorry, no, that will be all," John replied, and she hurried back behind the counter. He needed another cup of coffee himself, needed to pull himself together. He wasn't doing this new victim any favors by being so distraught. He decided to push all thoughts of Zeke Stone, Valerie Simone, and everything else about _that_ case out of his mind until he got through this workday. Then at least he would have the weekend to look forward to, to relax and get his head sorted.

* * *

The remaining hours of the afternoon passed uneventfully. No calls came from the captain about their other case, so John had a brief meet-up with Jeffries at the station house to review each other's notes and come up with a game plan for their new case, beginning next week.

"Hopefully this one won't be so hard to crack," John said.

"It shouldn't be," Monique said. "Guy was pretty reckless, and clueless. No condom, so if we're lucky something will come up in the system once we get the DNA results. Even if she didn't see him, she said her assailant had a distinct, deep voice and she gave me plenty of information that should help make an I.D."

"Good. Because I'm clocking out on this week, _tout de suite_."

"So are we. Want to join us for a round?" Olivia asked. She and Elliot were putting on their coats and heading for the door.

"I'm game," Jeffries volunteered. "John?"

"I'll pass, tonight. Been a long week and I need my beauty sleep."

"Gonna need more than sleep to achieve that goal," Elliot joked.

"I'm too tired to even be offended by that remark," John replied. He watched the others leave and then went to get his own coat and hat. He was planning on heading home, eventually. But he had one thing he wanted to do first, and on his own. There was somewhere he needed to revisit this evening, hoping it might clear his thoughts a bit, ease his mind over the next few days.

* * *

On Fridays the Metropolitan stayed open late, until nine o'clock. This particular Friday wasn't the first time John had taken advantage of those extended evenings since coming to New York; he found it relaxing to spend some hours with the museum's impressive collection of art after an exhausting week on the job. It was a chance to soak his eyes and his mind in creativity and talent instead of the horror and tragedy he otherwise saw every day.

But tonight his visit had a secondary purpose. He skipped his usual favorite galleries, the Arts of Japan, and went straight upstairs to European Paintings. The Venetian rooms in particular were his focus, where Kaser had led him and Stone to the portrait of Valeria Simonetti the day before.

John studied the painting up close, trying to understand. He knew people could become obsessed with celebrity and famous people to the extent of trying to become them in both appearance and in action. But even if this woman he was looking for now, this "Valerie Simone", had done her best to imitate Valeria's appearance, what did that have to do with becoming a killer? That was a piece of this puzzle he was missing entirely. Nothing Kaser had told them about Valeria's life suggested she was a murderer.

Eventually he stepped away from the painting and took a seat on the cushioned benches in the middle of the gallery. He rested there, quietly thinking, the soft buzz of whispers and murmurs of other museum visitors soothing even if they didn't help him come up with any answers.

"She's beautiful, isn't she?"

The woman's voice so close to his ear startled him. But even more startling was turning to look at her and realizing exactly who she was.

Valerie...or whatever her real name might be.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to alarm you," she said apologetically but with a small smile. In her dangerously short red dress and gold stiletto heels she was dressed for a night out on the town, not browsing a museum. John also took note of her Gucci handbag, which appeared to match the description of the one carried by the woman who was assaulted not far from Columbus Avenue.

"Oh, you didn't. I mean, it's fine," John stammered, trying to calm himself. "You're right, I was...lost in admiration. Both of the artwork and the subject." He tried his best to lay on the charm instead of shitting himself that his prime suspect in multiple homicides had just walked up and handed herself over to him. It seemed impossible, but then, this entire week had been laying a lengthy list of impossibilities at his feet. Why should he expect it to stop now?

"You are an avid student of the arts?" she asked. "I like that in a man. So many today seem to think only of work, money, sex...they have no taste, no mind for culture. No appreciation for the creative spirit and mind."

"And then the good ones are always married?"

"No." She shook her head. "The married ones only pretend to be good. They all eventually reveal their true nature."

"You sound like you've had your share of bad experiences."

"Mm," she replied vaguely, brushing her hair back behind her ear. "Can I ask, since you are here by yourself, are _you_ married...?" She let her question trail off as she extended her hand with delicate politeness.

"John," he gave his name. He noticed the gold band on her thumb and wondered if it could be Idler's wedding ring. "And I'm in the midst of ending my last marriage, actually. A tedious, torturous process that I only wish was over." He took her hand and found her touch unusually warm.

"Valerie," she replied, confirming—as if he'd had any doubt—that he had the right person.

Now to get her where he needed her. "Nice to meet you, Valerie. I take it you...come here often?"

"Whenever I can manage. Especially these galleries...It's the one place in this city that makes me feel close to home. All of these artists who came from Venezia, the images of her beauty...though few ever managed to capture her sorrow as well. Titian, perhaps, in his final days, when he had lost so much before the plague claimed his life."

"You're originally from Venice?"

"Yes. Many years ago. It has been a _very_ long time since I have been home." She sighed and gazed about the gallery with a wistful expression. "Some day I hope to return, when I have enough money to get there. Or perhaps when I find a suiable gentleman to take me with him," she added with a lingering look in John's direction.

"Well, I don't know if I can swing airfare for two to Italy tonight, but could I take you out somewhere for a drink?" John offered. "Maybe dinner? I happen to know an excellent place not far from here. Quiet, first-class wine list..."

"That sounds lovely and you are most kind. But I'm a woman of highly particular and expensive tastes. I'm not sure you could afford me."

John smiled, both at Valerie and at the perfect trap now before him. She'd been working him over just as he had been working her. If he could bring her in on solicitation charges, then it could be much simpler to hold her for a line-up...see if the hotel clerk or bartender at The Plaza could positively identify Valerie as the woman who'd been seen with Idler. That would be much better cause for arrest and charging her with murder than going on the surveillance camera footage. "You might be surprised, although...what exactly are talking about, here?" he asked.

"Oh, dinner alone could easily run you two hundred dollars for my company."

"And what if we skipped dinner entirely and headed straight to my place?"

She leaned in even closer, placing a hand on his thigh as she whispered against his ear. "A thousand dollars and I could be yours for the night. Wherever and...however you choose."

 _Down, boy,_ he warned his body, which started to react automatically to her despite years of dealing with suspects—and more than a few who had played the seduction card to try to trip him up. But he supposed his natural reactions would only help convince her he wasn't playing a game. "I have two hundred on me now, and my car's downstairs in the garage. Dinner and...then we see how the evening unfolds?"

"You are gentleman. I see my first impressions were correct." She kissed him lightly on the cheek and then rose to her feet. He got up and gently led the way to the elevators, hand light upon her waist as they walked along. In her heels she seemed almost as tall as he was and the sexual allure she gave off was palatable. More than a few heads turned to watch as she passed by, and under other circumstances it would have felt glorious to have such a beautiful and confident woman at his side.

 _A shame when the gorgeous ones are homicidal maniacs._

They made only light chit-chat while in the crowd of the elevator and the downstairs lobby where others were either leaving or rushing in to catch the final hour in the museum before closing. Heading to the garage, John observed it was mostly empty at this hour, no one around in sight. That was welcome as far as John was concerned. He knew what he needed to do, and he didn't want anyone else to be at risk. It didn't seem as though she could be hiding any weapons in that tight dress or small purse, but John wasn't in the mood to take chances.

"Here's my car," he said, leading her to the dark sedan near the far wall of the garage. "Hold on, let me move my things out of the passenger seat." He grabbed his handcuffs from under the newspaper; he'd stashed them there so he wouldn't set off the metal detector at the museum entrance. In a smooth and swift move he was standing again, smiling at Valerie as he held open the door. But as she moved past him to step inside the vehicle, he grabbed both of her wrists and pushed her roughly against the car. "Valerie Simone, you are under arrest for attempted solicitation. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to—"

But John never finished reciting her rights. Suddenly the metal cuffs in his hands, one closed about Valerie's wrist, grew so hot that they felt like they were on fire. He instinctively let go before the heat could burn him, yelping as he drew back in surprise. The next thing he knew the wind was knocked out of body as she threw _him_ against the car with enough force to leave him briefly dazed.

He sucked hard for air and then realized he couldn't breathe for Valerie's hands around his neck. He struggled to push her off but she was too strong—far too strong for a woman of her size. He was starting to see stars, imagining a fire burning not just from her hands but from her dark eyes turned flame red.

"Arrest me? You can burn in Hell, like all the others!" Rage filled every word she spit out at him. "All the men who used me and threw me away, now it's your turn. I will steal your breath..." she paused to kiss him on the lips, then laughed, leaving behind the taste of sulfur, "and then I will take your manhood, leave you as worthless as they left me on my own funeral pyre."

John could barely process what was happening as he struggled to simply get one breath of air. This was _not_ how he'd ever imagined dying. He supposed his exes would get a jolly laugh out of this, if nothing else. He wasn't ready for it to be the end. He supposed you never were, unless you pulled the trigger yourself...

But then Valerie was the one crying out in surprise, someone or some _thing_ fast and violent ripping her off him. John sank to the ground, gasping to get air into his starved lungs. He saw her wrestling with another figure...a man in a light-colored overcoat...Fuck, was that Stone?

Had to be. He had her pinned to the ground as they struggled, her trying to claw at his face, going for his eyes. John wanted to help but he was too weak until he could get his breath again. He could only stay where he was and try to gather his strength enough to go for his gun in the car's glove compartment, find his voice to order them both to stop.

Valerie had lost one of her stilettos when Stone grabbed her. John's eyes fell upon it the same instant Stone seemed to notice the shoe as well. Stone reached for it and John winced as he saw the man thrust the pointed heel into Valeria's left eye and then the right in two swift strikes.

Light exploded all around them, a brilliant bluish-white that left John momentarily blinded by its intensity. But he could still hear, and what he heard was a sound, a scream, so horrible that he knew he'd never be able to forget it, as much as he surely would want to for the rest of his life. It tore at something inside him, if not his soul—because he didn't believe in such things—but his sanity.

The bright light abruptly vanished as fast as it had appeared. And when it was gone, John saw only Stone on the concrete ground before him, clutching at his chest as if in some great pain, wisps of smoke escaping his grasping fingers.

John closed his eyes, ready to pass out. Maybe he did, briefly, because the next thing he knew Stone was gently shaking him, calling his name. "John, you with me, you all right?"

"What? I can't..." John blinked, tried to understand what had happened. His throat hurt, and words were difficult to form. "Where's...Valerie?"

"Gone, for good. And we need to get out of here ourselves. You sure you're okay?" Stone helped John to his feet. The world seemed to be spinning around him so he held on tight, afraid to fall. "Let me get you to the hospital."

"No, no hospital," John insisted. He just needed some time. "I'll be fine. Once I...once _you_ tell me what really happened here." John studied the man holding him, who had now, quite certainly, saved his life. "Who _are_ you?"

"I _am_ Ezekiel Stone. I never lied about that. But the rest is a long story. Why don't you give me your keys; if you won't go to a hospital, let me take you home, okay?"

John nodded in acceptance, only wondering why security hadn't come rushing in yet to see what all of the noise had been about. Maybe they'd caught a glimpse of the light-and-sound show and realized they wanted to be anywhere else themselves. He wouldn't blame them.

He fumbled to find his keys and handed them to Stone, allowing himself to be guided into the passenger seat. John managed to tell him his home address before closing his eyes and hearing the car engine roar to life.

* * *

Zeke considered it a very good thing indeed that he'd decided to tail Munch around today. He'd had a feeling the detective wouldn't give up on his hunt for the killer. When Zeke's attempts to track Valeria down had gone cold, he'd thought it wise to stay close to the police officer's heels as an alternative.

He hadn't planned on taking her out at close range like that, and in front of a witness to her return to Hell. However it was either that or lose his own eyes once she had him in her grasp. He'd taken the damned out with a lot of different weapons so far, but a high heeled shoe? That was a definite first for him.

Zeke worried about Munch and considered taking him to the hospital against his expressed wishes. But as he drove uptown, the detective seemed to come out of the dazed state Valeria's assault had understandably left him in. "You sure you're okay?" Zeke asked again, needing to be certain.

"I'll live," he replied, rubbing his throat.

"Then you're doing better than me."

"Tell me about that. Is the fact that you're supposedly dead part of this long story you have to share?"

"Yeah. But let me wait until I'm not driving through late Friday traffic in Manhattan to tell you the rest." Zeke hadn't been behind a wheel that much since returning to Earth, but at least this vehicle was a bit easier to control than the demonic car the devil had "sold" him in Los Angeles.

"Fine. You're going to take exit 14 up ahead, then get on Broadway. "

A few minutes later and Zeke parked, got out of the car and handed the keys to Munch. The detective was on his feet of his own volition, although he still appeared a little shaky.

"I can go now," Zeke offered, "and get out of your life permanently. Valeria—Valerie—won't be murdering any more men in this city. You don't have to know the rest. You probably don't _want_ to know the rest."

"Oh no, it doesn't work like that for me. I don't shy away from knowledge. I've devoted more days than you could know to unraveling mysteries, conspiracies, the supposedly 'impossible'. You'll see." Munch started walking, then spun around and asked, "You are coming up, aren't you? Because I don't know about you but I need a drink. Maybe something to eat." He coughed and winced. "Egg drop soup to soothe the nearly strangled throat, what do you think?"

Zeke wasn't about to say no to any of the above.

Munch led the way to his apartment, two blocks from where they parked and up an elevator to the fourth floor of the building. Inside Zeke found out exactly what Munch had meant about "mysteries" and "conspiracies". The place looked more like a covert operations headquarters than a living space. Books were everywhere, documents and letters tacked up to the walls, a desk buried under yet more papers and an old typewriter there in lieu of the home computer most people seemed to have these days.

Munch went to the kitchen and returned a minute later with two cold beers in hand. Decent quality stuff, too, better than the cheap Corona Zeke usually drank as it was all he could afford. Munch handed one bottle to Stone and asked, "Any requests? The Chinese place nearby that I like makes a great sesame chicken."

"Anything's fine with me. Though, I wouldn't mind some scallion pancakes." Zeke did love Chinese food and rarely avoided blowing his entire daily budget on a meal when he gave in to that temptation.

"You got it. Have a seat, get comfortable...and take off that damn coat."

Zeke searched around for any spot in the living room that wasn't buried under magazines and books. The sofa seemed reasonably safe, if he shuffled a few issues of _Fortean Times_ and _Nexus_ off the cushions _._ He curiously glanced over some of the magazine covers and their bizarre headlines while Munch put in the delivery order.

John then came out and claimed a spot on the other end of the sofa, slipping off his tie and loosening the top button of his dress shirt as he sat down.

"Interesting choice of reading material you've got here," Zeke observed.

"I imagine you've got an even more interesting story to tell. And we've got at least forty-five minutes before the food arrives, so let's start hearing it."

Zeke took a drink from his beer, sunk into the sofa cushions, and sighed. "Guess I'd better start at the beginning, which most people would think of as the end. That would be the day I was killed, in 1983."

"So you're saying you didn't fake your death." Zeke looked at him with some surprise and John shrugged. "That's the story I might, possibly, have heard."

"Who told you that?"

"Doesn't really matter, does it? Let's just say I did a little asking around."

Zeke supposed Munch was right. "Trust me, faking my death would have been a lot easier than what I had to deal with next."

* * *

John Munch was a patient listener; Zeke had learned this about the detective over the last few days and he was especially grateful for that now. He didn't interrupt, didn't laugh or make faces save the occasional eyebrow raise as Zeke told his story. He left nothing out—not how he had killed Gilbert Jax in cold blood for the rape of his wife when the criminal justice system had failed him. Not how he had been tormented for fifteen years in Hell, mostly in a mental prison of having to relive the day of Rosalyn's rape, over and over again, forever helpless and unable to help her, never able to break free from his own futile rage and thirst for vengeance.

Zeke told him about the breakout, the fugitive souls currently on the loose throughout the world and his own mission from the devil to send them back to Hell. He described how the ringleader of the breakout, Ashur Badaktu, had disguised herself as a police officer and was on her own mission to take down Zeke—and anyone else who stood in her way.

"She's one to watch out for. They're all dangerous, but she's in a league all of her own."

"I'll keep that in mind," John said. "So you're literally working for...Satan himself."

"Yeah. Although once, when I was questioning this whole business, I had an angel come to me. He suggested my mission might really have come from someone else." Zeke's eyes glanced upward, then across to Munch. That earned another arched eyebrow, but no comment. "If there's one thing I've learned about the devil it's to never trust precisely what he says. He won't lie, but he'll always twist the truth somehow to serve his own purposes."

Munch let out a long, audible breath, then got to his feet. He walked silently to the kitchen, returning a minute later with two glass tumblers and a bottle of Jim Bean. "This calls for something stronger than beer," he explained, pouring himself a shot and also offering one to Zeke.

"Thanks."

John drank his shot, winced, and ran his hands through his greying hair as if to clear his mind. He shook his head. "And people think _I'm_ crazy for believing that Kennedy was killed by the bankers, or questioning the moon landing. Now I'm supposed to welcome the idea that the entire Christian mythology of Heaven and Hell, God and Satan...it's all real. Angels and devils, fiery pits of torture and demons...that's a lot for a lifelong secular Jew such as myself to accept, you understand, even with everything I've seen the past few days."

"I know." Zee shrugged. "But try being the one who's been living it for almost two decades."

"On the plus side, at least Valeria won't be killing any more straying husbands again. On the negative side, here's another never-to-be-solved case to mess up my closure rate. 'Dispatched to Hell' isn't exactly something I can put on a DD5."

"Sorry. But at least your open cases aren't tattooed on your skin." Zeke pulled up the sleeves of his sweatshirt, revealing the symbols covering his flesh. While there were some open spaces now, there were a half dozen left on his left forearm alone which he showed to Munch. "See these marks? Each is the name of a fugitive. Written in angel script by the devil himself."

John shifted closer to get a better look. He took off his glasses and leaned in, clearly fascinated by the intricate markings, each one unique yet indecipherable to human understanding.

"I almost never know which one is which until after I send someone back. Then their mark burns away," Zeke explained.

"I thought I saw you clutching at your chest after you took care of Valeria tonight. So these marks, they're...all over?"

"Yeah. Mostly upper body and arms where I can see them, but...I'm not looking forward to a few in particular coming off."

"Ouch." Munch reached out and then stopped himself, hand hovering over Zeke's arm. Looking up he asked, "May I?"

Zeke nodded, knowing it was a curiosity. He was surprised, though, by the softness of John's touch—and even more surprised the way it made him feel. John's fingers carefully brushed over a tattoo on his forearm, tracing over the swirling shape similar to an ouroboros. Something about his touch caught Zeke off guard, made him more conscious of their closeness, how... _intimate_ , really...it was to reveal these marks to another, let alone allow them to be caressed.

It had been ages since anyone had handled him with any kind of real tenderness or care. And at another point in his life—in his actual lifetime—he would have been uncomfortable to receive that kind of contact from another man. But right now it felt like a welcome salve to his soul and made him strangely yearn for more.

John's fingers travelled down to a tattoo on his wrist and paused there. He held steady for a long moment and then regarded Zeke with wide eyes, eyes that appeared so different when not hidden behind the reflective glare of his glasses. "No pulse," he said simply.

"I told you, I'm dead."

"But you can eat, drink..."

"I don't really understand how it all works, but it does."

"Fascinating."

The loud buzzing of the intercom interrupted the contemplative mood. "Must be dinner." Munch got up and dashed to the door to confirm it was the delivery person, then rang him up.

"How much do I owe you?" Zeke asked, reaching to see what was left in his wallet so he could chip in.

"Put your money away, this is on me. Story like yours is worth at least some mu shu pork."

* * *

The hour grew late as the two ate, drank and talked. Eventually the Chinese food was finished, the last of Munch's six-pack consumed, and tumblers eschewed in favor of simply passing the bottle of bourbon back and forth between them. Zeke felt the closest to actually inebriated that he'd managed since returning to Earth, as alcohol had a significantly lesser effect on him as a dead man than it had in his mortal state. John seemed like the kind of guy who handled his liquor well ( _"I used to own a bar, you know"_ , he'd mentioned at some point of the evening), but he, too, was looking contentedly wobbly around the edges. His standard dour seriousness had started to crack, and another side of the detective that Zeke hadn't seen before began to emerge. One that was a bit silly and full of wisecracks—and maybe a bit flirtatious as well.

"So how long are you planning on staying in New York?" Munch asked.

"As long as there are more damned souls like Valeria I need to catch. Or unless it gets too tricky around here dodging the living police and I need to disappear for a while, head off to another city."

"Well, if you need help, you know where to find me."

"I appreciate it. Though honestly? The less I get others involved in this, the better off they generally are." Zeke saw by the clock on the wall that it was getting close to midnight. He really didn't feel like leaving but he also didn't want to outstay his welcome. He took one last drink from the bottle and handed it to John. "In fact I should probably head out, it's getting late."

"You sure? I mean, it's a Friday night and I'm off until Monday, barring emergencies. And this is so far turning into the most fascinating evening I've had since I stopped dropping acid in the seventies. Do you even have a place you're staying in the city currently?"

Zeke shrugged. "Central Park, unless the cops chase me out."

"My sofa's a lot more comfortable than that. You're fine spending the night here if you want. A couple nights if you need it."

"You in the habit of letting strange men with crazy stories drink your alcohol and crash on your sofa?" Zeke asked, even as he appreciated the offer more than he could say.

"Only the cute ones." John winked, although he then caught himself and apologized, "Sorry. If you're worried, I'm not telling you to stay because I'm planning on molesting you or anything."

Zeke hadn't jumped to that conclusion, but now that Munch had mentioned it, he realized that sex was a proposition he wouldn't have necessarily minded. Maybe he was a little more tipsy than he'd even thought. Maybe his skin still felt a little tingly and pleasantly warm from where John had touched him before, and he wanted to feel more of that same contact. "Does that mean I'm not cute?" Zeke replied, half-joking, half in invitation.

Munch grinned. "I didn't say that. I definitely didn't say that." He took a drink, offered the bottle again to Zeke, who took it after only a brief pause to consider. "You actually kind of remind me of the last partner I had, before Jeffries. Name was Brian. Fair-haired, handsome kid in a scruffy, puppy dog way...only he was innocent to the point of utter cluelessness. It was kind of adorable. But he couldn't take working Special Victims."

Zeke caught the melancholy look in the other man's eyes. "You two had a thing going?" he guessed.

John shrugged. "Not much more than a fling."

"Flings can be fun."

"Yeah. Anything's better than being alone." John held his hand out for the bottle. He'd loosened another button on his shirt, and this time he let his hand ever so slightly brush against Zeke's as he took the bottle. After a drink he settled back onto the sofa and asked, "You ever stray from that wife of yours, Zeke?"

"Never."

"Ever come close to it?"

Zeke paused. "Temptation is everywhere you look."

Munch laughed softly at that. "Sounds like something the devil himself would say...if I believed he existed."

"You still have doubts after everything I've told you?"

"Questioning everything is my nature." John sat up again, studying Zeke with an intensity that should have made him uncomfortable. But there was something about Munch that kept Zeke at ease. That vulnerability he'd seen lurking behind the cynic's eyes, that touch that had spoken to him, made him crave more.

 _Eyes...mirrors to the soul..._ one of the first things the devil had told Zeke, when he'd been thrust back into this world. If that were the case then John Munch had eyes that spoke of a soul which had seen and suffered through much, but somehow held on to hope and kindness. He just didn't want to let most people see it.

John was sitting close to him, had been gradually edging nearer throughout the evening. "You know, I've done a lot of things in my lifetime, but I've never kissed a dead man before," he said. "I'd kind of like to know what it's like, but if you're not game and I'm not your type, that's cool."

The nonchalant way he offered was what made it so easy. That and it felt comfortable, and safe, here in this place. Zeke leaned in to meet the tilt of John's lips and it didn't matter, man or woman, whom he was kissing. It was the contact and presence of a warm, living person here beside him, with him. Someone who was not repulsed or scared of what he was, but attracted and accepting of it.

Zeke could feel no pain inflicted on him by a living human. That was part of the rules of this game. But he was actually surprised to find he could feel pleasure, like this, from the sensual embrace and kiss of another, from John's fingers carding through his hair and the nearness of his body. The closest he'd come to anything like this was that one night in the car with Ash, but that encounter he now knew had been fueled by a different kind of heat and passion—one that came straight from Hell. This, _here_ , this was all about comfort, companionship...a kind of connection he hadn't known since Gilbert Jax had stolen it from his and Rosalyn's marriage.

John pulled away before things could go further, looking to gauge Zeke's eagerness for more. "My bed is a bit more comfortable than this sofa," he suggested.

"I take it you've never slept with a dead man, either."

"First time for everything, or so they say. I'm damn curious to see the rest of those tattoos."

Zeke let John see them all in the private sanctuary of his bedroom. See them, trace them with his fingers and kiss them in a way that made the marks seem holy, not the work of the devil. He felt consumed by need for physical intimacy and affection and John gave it to him in hedonistic excess. His lover's hard, lean body was a new experience for Zeke but not an unpleasant one. He enjoyed the strength he felt there, against his own hands, warmth and sweat and the quickening rhythm of a living, beating heart.

The pleasure Zeke felt was more than physical. His body reacted to stimulation as a mortal's would, but this was not about simple physiological response and release; kisses and fondling hands did more for him in this state, brought him as close to peace as he had known since the last time he had held Rosalyn in his arms.

He let John take satisfaction from his body as he wished. The intensity of feeling him inside, pressing and stretching him open, wasn't painful but it was odd, at first, a sensation Zeke hadn't experienced before. But he gave himself over to it, enraptured by the feeling of John grasping at his skin, holding on tight and calling out his name when he came. That was Zeke's own reward, his climax, all he needed to feel for at least one flash of Heaven instead of Hell.

Guilt only nagged slightly at the edges of his consciousness when it was over, as he lay in the easy cradling of John's arms and could hear him beginning to drift off into needed sleep. Zeke had traveled across this entire country to find Rosalyn, only to realize, when he found her, that he had to let her go. It didn't mean he didn't still love her; in fact, it was the best way he could show his love for her now, until the day his mission was over and his fate sealed, one way or another. But he yearned for companionship and understanding, for someone who could accept him as he was today—and that, in this place, he had found.

* * *

After a few too many nights sleeping on the ground or a hard park bench, Zeke reveled in the luxury of sleeping in an actual bed again. But he found it difficult to sleep through to morning, always wary that there were others out looking for him as much as he hunted for them.

When he woke up, shortly before dawn, he realized that he was alone in Munch's bed. He thought John had perhaps gotten up to use the bathroom—maybe that was what had awoken him—but as the minutes passed and he heard movement elsewhere in the apartment, he got up to investigate.

He saw the light on in the kitchen. John sat there at the breakfast table, a cup of tea in his hands, a black robe draped over his lanky frame. He glanced up and gave Zeke a sleepy-eyed look. "Sorry if I woke you up. Sucks when the hangover doesn't even wait until the actual morning."

"I hear you on that."

"Thought you can't get sick."

"Only if one of the damned passes something on to me."

"Sweet deal."

"Not really, if you knew some of what I've caught so far."

Zeke took a seat at the table and John asked, "Want some tea or anything?"

"I would like to hear _your_ story. I know you have one."

John rubbed his face with his hands. "Yeah. One I haven't told anyone else. But I guess if you can't confess to a dead man, who can you talk to?" He took another sip of his tea, and Zeke waited. "I told you I was in Homicide in Baltimore, before coming here to New York last year. Wasn't just for the change of pace or to get away from my ex-wives. I had other ghosts in Charm City that I needed to escape.

"One day, this was maybe five years ago...I was out on a routine call with my partner, and two other solid cops in our unit. We were supposed to be serving a warrant when things went tits up, all because we had the wrong apartment number in the building. Trying to bring in a pedophile murderer and we ended up knocking on the door of some racist, cop-hating gun nut by the name of Gordon Pratt. Guy opened up on us from above, in the stairwell, no one saw it coming until the bullets started flying. I was the only one left standing."

"The other three died?"

"Nearly. Somehow they all made it through but it was touch and go. I spent days hovering in the hospital trying to figure out why _I_ was the one left unharmed. Me, John Munch, the guy who wasn't any kind of hot shot. Just the dumb schlub who got lucky.

"The little snot who nearly killed my partner and my friends ended up walking after we couldn't pin anything on him, and the detective interrogating him botched the job. We all knew he was going to get off free and clear. I figured, then...maybe that's why I ended up walking away from the shooting. Maybe it was my job to even the score, so he couldn't someday try to kill another cop."

"So you took matters into your own hands."

"What do you think?" John asked, challenging Zeke to pass judgement.

"I think I'm the last one to blame you, if you did."

John sighed and played with the tea bag string dangling from his mug. "Pratt was found a few hours after he was released. Shot dead, point blank. I should have gone down for it. Don't think I even cared at that point if I did or not. I had shit for an alibi and if anyone really looked too close...But the cop assigned to his murder was under a lot of pressure not to do that. Leave the scumbag's name in red on the board, don't bring down a brother cop. A few years later, that cop told me he always suspected I was the one responsible. He was in a rough place himself, I started thinking, well...wasn't long after that I decided a change of scenery wouldn't be a bad idea."

The anxious expression on John's face made him suddenly appear much older. "I thought it was up to me to bring that bastard to justice since no one else ever would. I never had faith in any kind of divine judgement. Never had much faith in anything after my father blew his own brains out when I was a kid. You grow up living through that, through seeing your heroes like Kennedy die and the real murders getting away with it for decades? How was I supposed to believe there really is a Heaven and Hell, a God that supposedly cares what happens to us and a devil waiting to punish the evil doers? And now I meet you and I hear your story...I _believe_ your story and...and in doing so I have to accept that I'm probably going end up exactly where you were the day my number's up."

"Killing my wife's rapist isn't what damned me," Zeke said. "Taking pleasure in the act of murdering him, feeling no remorse for it...that's what landed me in Hell. Every one of the damned I've sent back there didn't understand that. They might have been dead for decades, centuries, and they were all trapped in the belief that they hadn't done anything wrong, they were justified in their sins. They had no remorse, no _repentance_...there was only one who seemed to have realized what he did wrong and had turned to God, even if it meant he had to return to Hell to finish serving his sentence."

"Did he?" John asked. "Go to Hell, I mean."

"I don't know. Maybe I never will. Because the thing of it is...I still don't feel remorse for killing Gilbert Jax," Zeke confessed. "I'd probably do it again—shit, I _did_ do it again. He was practically the first fugitive I ran into from the escape, and he was at his old tricks again, ruining women's lives and taking pleasure in it. You bet your ass it felt good sending him back to where he belonged."

"And I have difficultly finding any place in my heart to feel remorse for killing Gordon Pratt," John said. "So where exactly does that leave me?"

"With time to try to find it. Before it's too late."

"I guess so." John sighed, then got to his feet. "I'm going to bed, get some more sleep, or...whatever. You joining me?"

"In a few minutes," Zeke said, although in his non-beating heart he realized he needed to go. Now wasn't the time for him to get attached, to make friendships or become lovers with anyone for longer than one night. He didn't want to risk John's life doing that—not when there was, hopefully, a chance for the man to save his own soul. "Think I'll get a glass of water first."

"Okay." John gave him a look that said he understood, a small smile before leaving the kitchen. Zeke sat there for several minutes, thinking, debating, wondering where he'd be off to next.

He was sure the devil would show up soon to let him know.

* * *

 _ **June 2016**_

"Unca John, unca John!"

"Hold on, Noah. Don't run so far ahead." John picked up the pace the best he could after the rampaging young boy. Some older children were flying kites on the Great Lawn of Central Park and Noah was determined to get a closer look.

 _Chasing after other people's children is really not how I planned to spend my retirement,_ he thought to himself, though he was not so much bothered by this fact as he was amused. Truthfully he was more than happy to help out anytime Olivia called and asked if he could look after her boy for the day, or even a few hours if her regular sitter was busy. And with Amanda now having her Jesse, and Fin on his way to becoming a grandfather, John was beginning to wonder if he should start a full-time babysitting service for the 16th Precinct, all of his friends and, well, _family_ as he considered them to this day.

"Airplane!" Noah shouted, pointing at a rainbow-colored flyer.

"No, Noah, that's a kite. See? That other boy over there is controlling it."

"I want kite."

"Maybe next time, kiddo, okay?" John was ready to take a brief respite on the grass and just enjoy the summer day. Unfortunately rambunctious three-year olds rarely saw the pleasure in simply sitting down and taking in the scenery.

Noah pouted, staring and fixated on the colorful kite and the boy of about five or six years of age controlling it. That child was with a man who appeared to be his father, and who turned around and saw John standing there with Noah. He gave them both a friendly smile, and called over to Noah, "Hey. Want to give it a try? Matthew, how about you show him how it works? You're doing so well."

The other child eyed Noah cautiously, then shrugged and said, "Okay." Noah went running over and John approached the boy's father, who seemed strangely familiar to him.

"Thanks. No doubt he'll be bored of it in two minutes but it'll be better than hearing about kites for days on end," John said as the two watched the children interact. Matthew was being extremely serious and authoritative in how he explained to Noah to hold the kite controller while Noah listened closely.

The man laughed. "Yeah. That's how they are at that age. He your grandson?"

"No, a friend's kid. I'm merely a grandfather-for-hire these days."

"Nice job. Never thought I was going to be a dad. Came a little later in life than expected...but I appreciate it more that way, I think." The man gave him another easy smile and John knew he was staring. He couldn't help himself. He had a sharp memory, despite all of the people he'd encountered through his six decades on this planet. He didn't tend to forget a face. And this one was older now, grey hair dusting his temples and wrinkles in the corners of his eyes. But it was a face he would never forget.

"I imagine you would," John said slowly. "Not many men get released from Hell and go on to start a family."

Ezekiel Stone blinked, recognition dawning but more slowly across his features. "John. Been a long time," he said.

"That it has."

John had tried his hardest to forget about Ezekiel Stone, to put the things he'd learned from him out of his head. But knowledge could rarely be put back into the bottle once released. Every once in a while a strange case would hit the news, or filter through the NYPD grapevine, and John would wonder. Wait to hear if he'd get a call from Stone or see him show up unexpectedly looking for help once more.

It hadn't happened, something which had left him both glad and occasionally faintly disappointed.

John glanced at Zeke's bare arms, revealed from the sleeves of his cotton t-shirt. He tilted his head and asked, "I take it they're all gone?"

"Yep. Returned to where they belong."

"And you. Did you figure out where you belong?" John asked.

"I hope so." Zeke squinted into the sunlight. "What about you?"

John let out a sigh and watched the two young boys. "I guess I'll find out soon enough. Hopefully not _too_ soon, since I've finally discovered that there's more to life than that job I worked too many years."

"Nothing truer than that."

John noticed after only a few minutes that Noah was already growing impatient and bored, simply holding the kite controller while it glided steady overhead. "Noah, come on, let's go. How about ice cream and then we can head over to the zoo."

"Ice cream!" Noah thrust the controller into Matthew's hands and bounded over to John, taking his hand and tugging at it excitedly.

"Uh oh, we'd better get going before he drags me there," John said with a contented laugh. Looking at Zeke, he said, "Nice to see you again. Maybe some day you can catch me up on the rest of your story. I'd love to hear it."

"Sure. I'm around. Back in New York full time."

"And I'm at the DA's office now, part-time. More bureaucracy to deal with there, but fewer broken hearts."

Zeke nodded and said, "Take care of yourself, John."

" _Shalom_ ," John said, smiling as he walked off, Noah leading the way.

Zeke watched after them, his mind briefly filled with thoughts of his past that he usually tried not to recall that closely. A short while later, his wife came up to join him, putting an arm around his waist as she handed him a water bottle.

"Thanks."

"Who was that, Zeke?" she asked. "That man with the boy. Seemed like you knew him."

"He was an old friend, Ros." He leaned down to kiss her. "An old and good friend."


End file.
